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25 CtS. 


LOVELL’S 

WESTMINSTER 

SERIES 


HER 

.AST THROW 

BY 

“THE DUCHESS” 


NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

150 Worth St., cor. Mission Place 


Bl> WEEKLY. 


ANNUAL SUBSCRIPTION, $12.00. 


JUNE j6, 1890. 


BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT WITH THE AUTHORS. 


LOVELL’S 

Westminster Series. 

1. Hee Last Throw. By the Duchess - - 25 

2. The Moment After. By Robert Buchanan - 25 O' 

3. The Case of Gen’l Ople and Lady Camper. By 

George Meredith 25 

4. The Story of the Gadsbys. By Rudyard 

Kipling 25 

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6. Chloe. By George Meredith . . . - 25 

7. An Old Courtyard. By Katherine S. Macquoid 25 

8. Frances Kane’s Fortune. By L. T. Meade - 25 

9. Passion the Plaything. By R. Murray Gilchrist,' 25 

10. City and Suburban. By Florence Warden - 25 

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Edwards 25 

Any of the above sent postpaid, on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 


150 WORTH STREET, NEW YORK, 


HER LAST THROW, 


0 





M * *- 


«• i 



' , 7 














\ 



HER LAST THROW. 


Author 


A KfOVEI^. 




HY IJ Y 

“THE DUCHESS,” ^ 


of “ Molly Ba-W7il' “ riiyllis," “ A Born U 
Coquette^' April's Lady," etc., etc. . 


** Thou sayest it . 


. I am outcast.” 

— Morris. 



NEW YORK : 


JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

150 Worth Street. 


COFTRIGHT, 1890, 

BT 

J. W. LOVELL CO 




HER LAST THROW. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ Nor do they trust their tongues alone, 

But speak a language of their own ; 

Convey a libel in a frown, 

And wink a reputation down.” 

But who, w she, dear Lady Seyern ? That 
is what we all want to know. It is so 
awkward having people drop upon one from 
the clouds as it were, without a single word 
as to their antecedents.” 

“ Well, if they drop from the clouds there 
can’t be much the matter with them,” says 
Lady Severn, arching her pretty brows, and 
smiling in a somewhat amused fashion. 

“ Ah, that is just it. For politeness’ sake 
one suggests the clouds, but what if a next 


4 HER LAST THROW. 

door neighbor, such as she is, should have 
ascended ! That would be awkward — very.” 

The speaker, a huge florid woman, of 
about sixty, fans herself heavily, and purses 
up her lips, and looks so many things that 
her hostess gives way to a sense of fatigue. 

Very, for ” says she, somewhat 
flippantly it must be confessed. Her pret- 
ty, kindly face has taken a distressed ex- 
pression. This dreadful Mrs. Wilcott! 
Will nobody come to relieve her of her 
detested tUe-a-tUe. Fate seems to be con- 
spiring against her. On every other Friday 
people have flocked in to see her, and play 
tennis on her charming grounds, and just 
to-day, because she wants them, her day is 
left unto her desolate. Even if Fay would 
only come in and stop this sharp exam- 
ination that threatens to be a very cross 
one. 

“ Oh, and for us, too, dear Lady Severn. 
Now, you, as Sir George’s wife, should 
know something about her.” 

“ I can’t imagine why you should think 


HER LAST THROW. 5 

there is anything wrong,” says Lady Se- 
vern with a swift frown. “We have all 
met her, she is charming — she is lovely ; 
perhaps,” a little maliciously, that is her 
fault.” 

Not so far as / am concerned,” says 
Mrs. Wilcott promptly. “ I don’t think her 
lovely, I merely speak in the interests of 
society ; in your interests, in fact. Sir 
George being her landlord, and in a sense 
responsible •” 

Oh no, I disclaim that.” 

“ Well, I am afraid the County won’t let 
you. But — er — as I was saying, Sir George 
being in a measure her sponsor, and con- 
sidering the tie that soon must connect your 

family with mine ” here Mrs. Wilcott, 

whose late lamented had made his money 
in Manchester by rather nefarious means, 
largely connected with sugar and old bones, 
looks one overpowering smirk, and Lady 
Severn shrinks palpably — “ I thought I 
would give you a little hint as to what is 
expected of you.” 


6 


HER LAST THROW. 


I am a very dull person,” says Lady 
Severn, with a slight touch of hauteur. 

What is expected of me ? ” 

Why, I told you. We want to know 
who and what Mrs. Barrington is'" 

“ And who we' ? ” asks Lady Severn, 
the little sneer round her lips increasing. 

The County ! ” replies her guest with 
all the solemnity due to the occasion. Evi- 
dently the County is her fetish^ — her god — 
to whom she bows, not only in the morning 
and at noontide, but every moment of the 
day. 

“I’m sorry I can’t enlighten it,” says 
Lady Severn, now with a genuine laugh. 
The touch of humor born with her has 
overcome her anger, and she. is struggling 
with a wild desire to give way to mirth as 
she watches Mrs. Wilcott’s growing im- 
pressiveness over her deity. “ I’m afraid, 
indeed, I can’t do anything to alleviate your 
anxiety. Sir-George’s lawyer might be able 
to lift this weight off your rnind, but I’m 
afraid neither Sir George nor I can be of any 


HER LAST THRO IV. 


7 


use. We have been — you make me /£el it^ 
disg^racefully culpable. But the fact is, ^The 
Priory ’ was so long on our hands, that we 
were delighted to get any tenant for it. We 
expected a frowzy old person of eighty or 
so — it is not our faults, at all events, that 
Mrs. Barrington should have turned out 
young and lovely.” 

“ Young !'' says Mrs. Wilcott. “ Thirty 
ifa day.” 

“ Well, you know 

‘ A woman’s as old as she’s looking, 

A man is as old as he feels.’ 

Mrs. Barrington, whatever her age, has the 
beaute du diable about her still.” 

‘Werymuch the diable in my opinion,” 
says Mrs. Wilcott with an awful sniff. 

“You quite startle me,” says Lady 
Severn, smiling. “ I confess I am not in a 
position to say anything foy my tenant. 
Am I, however, to understand that you 
know something against her ? ” 

“ Oh, no, no. Dear me, no ! I should 
be the last person in the world to find fault: 


8 HER LAST THROW. 

with anyone. I am on your side, of course, 
and I hope all things for this Mrs. Barring- 
ton, but you know there are others. There 
arc a great many troublesome people in 
the world,” says Mrs. Wilcott, with a sigh 
of deepest resignation. 

“ There are indeed,” says Lady Severn, 
with a sigh that beats it thoroughly. Put 
the tea on the table over there, Thomas,” 
pointing to a three-legged, most dangerous 
thing at the very farthest limit from Mrs. 
Wilcott. 

Fay will want her tea,” she says 
absently. She goes to the wdndow and 
looks with eager concern round the corner 
to where a portion of the eastern tennis- 
court can be seen. No sign of Fay — the 
little step-sister, who has come to live with 
her, with Sir George’s full and eager con- 
sent. A penniless child— a pretty, petu- 
lant, charming creature of seventeen, to 
whom all things seem possible, and nothing 
in the world impossible. A little, lovely 
fairy, as dear to Lady Severn almost as 


HER LAST THRO If'. 


9 


the first baby — her very own — lying in its 
cradle now upstairs in the big airy nursery. 
After all, the tiny step-sister had been 
given to her to watch and ward by a 
dying mother when it was only a baby too. 

A soft, exultant laugh catches her ear as 
she is turning back to give Mrs. Wilcott 
her conversation once again, and, a far 
easier thing, her tea. It comes from Fay 
surely. Yes, there she is ; in full flight; 
with two of the small Severns beside her. 
Lady Severn’s little step-sons — pretty 
boys ; Severns all through— of about nine 
and ten years of age. 

Mrs. Wilcott, who is watching her, hav- 
ing nothing else to do, seeing the growing 
brightness in her face goes to the window 
also. 

Ah ! your step-sister ! ” says she. 

Yes. She will come in now.” 

“ One can see you are fond of her,” says 
Mrs. Wilcott. ‘‘ Every step sister is not 
beloved. But I always say, why not? 
For my part,” with a fat laugh, “ if / had a 


HER LAST THRO IV. 


lo 

step-sister younger than myself I should 
encourage her largely. Half the world, 
you see, doesn’t know about the ‘ step.’ 
and it adds so much to one’s own 3'outh, 
don’t you know.” 

Oh, yes, one always knows,” says 
Lady Severn, with ill-concealed disgust. 
Hoiv could the late Sir George have en^ 
couraged an engagement between Ernest, 
his youngest son, and the daughter of this 
terrible woman. No amount of money 
could make up for the annoyance of it’. 
And Ernest, himself! however he might 
have felt in his boyish days, when the 
engagement was hurried on and completed, 
she . is quite sure he cares nothing now., 
judging by the dilatoriness with which he 
pays his visits to his beloved when in the 
county. Of late, too, he has seemed to 
find a terrible difficulty in gaining leave 
from his colonel for even a day. He who 
used to spend weeks at a time with them I 
And as for Jessica ! Does she care either ? 
A pretty creature-^a little J ewish in profile. 


* tiER last throw. n 

But so silent, so impassive, so uninterest- 
ing — as Lady Severn thought. 

However, the engagement was of such 
an old standing that there was no use in go- 
ing against it now. J essica had had from 
infancy a large fortune, scented and sweet- 
ened by sugar and old bones, and Sir 
George’s father, who died last year, had 
thought her dot a capital thing to secure for 
his third son, who was comparatively penni- 
less — if one excepts the noble income.he 
derived from an Hussar regiment as cap- 
tain. The girl had seemed attracted by 
Ernest Severn, and he by her. There had 
been several months of hot flirtation and 
then — the denoiiement. In a foolish mo- 
ment, after a dance, just before the car- 
riages were ordered and the lights began to 
burn low in gardens and conservatories, 
Ernest had asked Miss Wilcott to be his 
wife, and in just as foolish a moment Jessica 
Wilcott had said yes. I don’t think either 
had been influenced by mundane con- 


12 


HER LAST THROW. 


siderations. She had not thought of his 
birth ; he had not thought of her money. 

Next morning both had felt a little 
startled at what had been done, but not 
enough to make them undo it. At that 
time neither cared for anyone else, so the 
mischief accomplished did not seem so bad 
as it really was. 

The late Sir George had been delighted 
when the news was conveyed to him in 
somewhat laggard fashion by Ernest. Now 
his third son, and his dearest, the one who 
had been left to him as a special charge by 
his dying wife, was in a fair way to be com- 
fortable for life. 

“In clover! By Jingo!” said the old 
man, slapping his thigh. He squirmed at 
the idea of a Brummagem wife for his 
youngest born, but still thought fondly of 
her wealth. 

His second son Pasco would have enough 
of his own. All his poor mother’s property, 
who had been a big heiress, and owned 
property both in North and South. There- 


HER LAS7' THROW. 


*3 

fore Ernest was the one to be considered. 

And the old man died, not seeinof his de- 
sire accomplished, and still the engagement 
holds good ; J essica and her betrothed being 
always on excellent terms until quite lately 
— until in fact a month ago, the beginning of 
this summer, when Mr. Wyvern, a barrister, 
had come down from London to recruit a 
rather over-tried if distinctly clever brain 
at the Park, where his aunt, Mrs. Wilcott, 
lived — and J essica ! 

“ Your step-sister has come to live with 
you definitely ? ” asks Mrs. Wilcott, reseat- 
ing herself, and evidently preparing for a 
fresh campaign. 

“My sister will live with me — yes,” says 
Lady Severn. “ You have not met her 
yet I think, though Jessica and she are 
quite friends already.” She looks out of 
the window again and succeeds in attracting 
the girl’s attention. “ Fay, come in, dar- 
ling ! ” cries she in her clear, sweet tones. 


hEU LAST THROW", 


U 


CHAPTER II. 

“Surely Nature must have meant yoH 
For a syren when she sent you 

That sweet voice and glittering hair.” 

There is a response in a joyous voice — a 
little rush of feet across the grass, a patter- 
patter of high-heeled shoes up the stone 
steps of the terrace, and presenfly Miss 
Ashton stands revealed, framed in by the 
ivy-clad woodwork of the open window. 

“ You called me ? ” asks she, addressing 
her sister. 

“Yes. Come in. Fay, and let me intro- 
duce you to Mrs. Wilcott. I have been 
telling her that you are already acquainted 
with her daughter — Jessica.’' 

Fay steps lightly into the room. 

She is a slight, small creature, as delicate' 
ly as she is exquisitely proportioned. A 


HER LAST THRO IV. 


15 


\( y gipsy in coloring, so dark she is, with 
her deep velvet eyes, and the soft nut-brown 
rings of hair that curl around her dainty 
head. She had been well named Fay,” 
a long time ago, though she had not been 
given that fantastic name at baptism. It 
suits her, and seems to belong to her of 
right. She is an extreme contrast to -her 
step-sister. Lady Severn, who is tall and 
fair, and who, it may not uncharitably be 
supposed, will be stouter as the years go 
by. 

Fay, on the contrary, is slim as a willow 
wand, and vivacious almost to a fault. A 
lovely thing of light and air, and one that 
might be termed soulless as a butterfly, 
save for the depth in the dark eyes, and 
the rather passionate curve of the red lips. 
A good little friend, no doubt, and a rather 
dangerous little foe. But one who, if she 
did love, would count the world well lost 
for her heart’s desire. 

At present her heart is entirely in Lady 
Severn’s keeping. Between the two there 


16 


HER LAST THRO IV. 


exists an affection far deeper than is usually 
known to sisters who are even of the same 
blood. A great deal younger than Lady 
Severn, Fay has ever been treated by her 
as a child, a beloved gift left to her by her 
dead mother. 

“ How d’ye do ? ” says Fay, advancing, 
and giving her hand to Mrs. Wilcott. Y es, 
I have met Miss Wilcott.’* 

‘‘ So she told me,” says Mrs. Wilcott, 
smiling her elephantine smile. “ I hope 
you and she will suit each other. So few 
people in a small neighborhood like this 
with whom one cares to associate.” 

So true !” says Fay, with considerable 
meaning. She moves to a big arm-chair 
and drops into it with a sort of indolent 
grace. Her charming dark head shows out 
agreeably against the amber satin behind 
it. She makes, indeed, a perfect picture as 
she so sits — or lounges. Every gesture is 
expressive, every turn of her lithe body a 
study in itself. 

“ But J essica 


HER LAST THRO IV. 


*7 


“ Jessica is delighful,” says Miss Ashton 
quickly, but without emotion, more as if to 
stop the other than from any enthusiasm 
about the subject in hand. 

She has been considered so,” says Mrs. 
Wilcott heavily. As a fact she .and the 
fair Jessica do not pull together very well, 
but to hear Mrs. Wilcott talk about her 
daughter is to know what a mother’s love 
must really mean. ^‘Jessica is very dis- 
tinguished,” goes on Mrs. Wilcott, not 
knowing exactly what she means. “ I 
have heard her described as being rather 
special. Her manners leave nothing to be 

desired, they are ” 

“ Of that kind that 

‘Stamps the cast of Vere de Vere,’” 

says Fay, idly furling and unfurling the 
huge red fan she holds, and endeavoring 
nobly to suppress the yawn that is dying 
'to divide her lips. 

“ Eh ” says Mrs. Wilcott, but receives 


HER LAST THRO IF. 


iS 

no answer save a slight glance from the 
girl from under her slumbrous lids. 

There is a pause. Through all Mrs. 
Wilcott’s density there grows a fancy that 
this pale, slender child can be guilty of 
flippancy— and to /le?' ! She draws herself 
up. What on earth did she mean ? Who 
were the de Veres ? 

“ We are not connected with people of that 
name, so far as I know,” says she austere- 
ly. “ The de Veres are a northern family, 
I fancy.” 

Fay, after one swift glance at Lady Se- 
vern, who frowns down imperatively any 
attempt at collusion, gives way to an irre- 
pressible little laugh. 

No ? Yet one notes the resemblance,” 
says she, naughtily. “I’m sure there 
be a cousinship somewhere.” 

She beams at Mrs. Wilcott, and her low, 
soft, yet clear voice rings prettily in the 
ears of the elder lady. De Vere ! A good 
name. Evidently this little queer girl has 
sufficient common-sense about her to know 


HER LAST THROW. 


*9 


that she — Mrs. Wilcott — is a person of no 
ordinary distinction. She will ask Jessica 
about these de Veres when she gets home. 
Jessica knows a good deal. 

When she does ask Jessica there is a 
remarkably bad quarter of an hour for some- 
body ! 

“ We were talking about Mrs. Barring- 
ton, that pretty woman who has taken 
* The Priory,’ ” says Lady Severn rather 
hastily, hardly knowing what Fay may do 
or say next. “ Mrs. Wilcott, I am afraid, 
is not prepossessed in her favor.” 

‘‘ What ? ” cries Fay. “ That lovely 
woman — oh ” 

Y ou are wrong, quite wrong, I assure 
you. Lady Severn,” exclaims Mrs. Wilcott 
growing warm. “ On the contrary, I admire 
Mrs. Barrington immensely — quite im- 
mensely. So agreeable in her manner, and 
er — in such evident good circumstances. I 
have always rather fancied her, for myself! 
Quite an acquisition to the neighborhood 
I have always considered her — only ” 


20 


HER LAST THRO IV. 


“ Ah, we are coming to it now ! ’ says 
Fay, leaning forward with an appearance of 
great interest that is perhaps a little over- 
done. 

‘‘Only — I am afraid 30U are a mischie- 
vous little girl,” cries Mrs. Wilcott, pausing 
to shake a playful forefinger at Fay, and 
evidently wishing Fay was the forefinger. 
“ What I was going to say was, that one 
likes, you understand, to know who one is 
talking to, no matter how charming they 
may be.” 

This exclusive sentiment coming from 
the daughter of the Manchester tradesman 
is bound to be admired. Fay, to judge 
by her face, admires it immensely. She 
laughs lightly — a soft little laugh, that, com- 
ing from the depths of the big arm-chair, 
sounds rather mocking. 

“ I don’t think it matters half so much 
who you are as what you are,” she says. 

“ Well, that is pretty much the same 
thing, isn’t it ? ” says Mrs. Wilcott. “ When 


HER LAST THRO IV. 


one knows what a person is — whether be- 
longing to the county ” 

Or to trade. Precisely so,” says Fay 
with a lovely little nod of intelligence, that 
almost gives the lie to the arriere pens^ 
below. “ But after all I don’t mean that. 
What I call important is the discovery of 
whether a fresh acquaintance is charming 
or detestable, lovable or disagreeable ! ” 

“ You must pardon my saying that that 
is a very youthful remark,” says Mrs. Wil- 
cott in her deepest bass. 

“Well! Fay is young,” says Lady 
Severn diplomatically. What is that mad 
little thing going to say next } 

“ That will mend ! ” says Mrs. Wilcott 
with a forgiving smile that is almost as 
good as a retort. “ As for your new tenant, 
Mrs. Barrington, what I was going to say 

about her was that she ” 

“Ah! You need say no more. The 
mystery is solved ! ” cries Fay, rushing out 
of her chair and running to the window. 
“ Surely I hear the approaching wheels of 


22 HER LAST THROW. 

her chariot ? and therefore Mrs. Barring- 
ton’s reputation is assured. She is an 
angel! The moment we began to talk 
of her, she appeared ! An infallible sign. 
Yes, I was right,” nodding and smiling and 
kissing her hand to somebody down below. 
“ See, Nettie,” turning to Lady Severn, 
“ here she comes.” 

“ Proof positive, of course,” says Lady 
Severn, smiling, as she always does at her 
little sister’s bursts of nonsense. 

Two pretty ponies have just been pulled 
up at the Hall door. And the tall slender 
woman who has been driving them, giving 
the reins to her groom, descends to the 
ground. Almost as she does so a horseman 
rides up, springs to earth, and just fails in 
being in time to give her his hand. He 
does not fail, however, in winning a smile 
from her as a greeting. 

“ Ah ! your brother-in-law, Mr. Pasco 
Severn!” says Mrs. Wilcott, whose curi- 
osity has compelled her to go to the win- 
dow also. She is staring through a formid- 


HER LAST THROW. 


23 


able pince-nez at the young man who has 
just sprung down from his horse. “ Very 
devoted there^ I hear. Eh ? ” 

“ I seldom hear ! ” says Lady Severn 
calmly. She might perhaps have said 
something more, but that by this time Mrs. 
Barrington has entered the Hall, and is being 
ushered by the footman into the drawing- 
room. She rises to welcome her. 


HER LAST THROW, 




CHAPTER III. 

The curious, questioning eye, 

That plucks the heart of every mystery.” 

How dy’e do,” says she, rustling towards 
her. “ A delicious day, is it not ? ” 

‘‘ Perhaps a little too warm,” says Mrs. 
Barrington in a gentle, slow sort of way. 

She is a tall woman, as has been said, of 
about thirty — not more certainly. She is 
singularly pale and singularly beautiful. 
Nature seems to have given all her time to 
the creation of her. No fault is visible. 
And her form is as perfect as her face. 
Every movement is a suggestion of grace 
— every glance a charm. Her large eyes 
— a deep grey, almost black — are filled 
with a strange light, that might be melan- 
choly or fear, or memories of past unhappi- 
ness — or only a mere freak of Nature for 


HER LAST THROW. 


25 


the matter of that, but whatever it is, it 
lends a delight to them that few eyes posr 
sess. Her mouth is beautiful, not small, 
large rather, but without a flaw, for all that. 
Her bright brown hair has a tinge of gold 
in it. 

She is diiessed in half mourning, very 
fashionable, if very quiet. It is worn for 
the late Mr. Barrington, says the neighbor- 
hood, but nobody can remember that Mrs. 
Barrington had ever said so. A ftcrwards^ 
they remembered that she hadn’t. But just 
now it seems the reasonable thing to im- 
agine, and as reason is everything, of course 
nothing else matters. She does not wear 
a widow’s bonnet, but the extremely pretty 
article that covers her head has a good deal 
of crape about it. 

As she entered the room, a young man 
had followed her. Pasco Severn, the hand- 
somest of all the handsome Severns. A 
tall man, with a haughty, rather severely 
cut face, and an earnest expression. Sir 
George, the eldest of the three brothers, is 


26 


HER LAST THROW. 


handsome too, in a big, burly, fair fashion, 
but Pasco, who is ten years his brother’s 
junior, is as shapely as a man can be, and 
well set up on all points. He lives at a place 
called “ Fensides” (for no earthly reason 
apparently but because there isn’t a fen 
within a hundred miles of it), a place inhe- 
rited from his mother, who had left it to her 
second son with the two thousand a year 
belonging to it. 

“ You^ Pasco ! ” says his sister-in-law, 
giving him her hand and a smile. “ We 
didn’t hope to see you to-day.” 

“Well, I didn’t hope it myself until half- 
an-hour ago,” says Severn. “ I found then 
I had business in this part of the world that 
compelled my coming in this direction. It 
was the first time in my life,” laughing, 
“ that I found business a pleasure.” 

He smiles comprehensively all round, 
but somehow at the last the smile settles 
on Mrs. Barrington, to gain an answering 
smile there. 

“ How dusty the roads are to-day,” says 


HER LAST THROJV. 


27 


Mrs. Wilcott, turning- to the latter. A 
perfect cloud of dust. I suppose, Mrs. 
Barrington, you came by the lower road 
that overlooks the. sea ? So much the 
prettier drive. By-the-bye, your name 
reminds me of old friends of mine, now, I 
regret to say, beyond my knowledge ; we 
have lost sight of each other for so many 
years. I allude to the Barringtons of Nor- 
folk. Your husband, perhaps, was con- 
nected with them ? ” 

“ I don’t know, really ; but I thmk not,” 
says Mrs. Barrington slowly. She has 
grown a little pale. The day is certainly 
abominably warm. 

Ah, there are Barringtons in the North 
too. Very good people ? ” interrogatively. 

‘‘ Are there } No, thank you, Miss Ash- 
ton, no sugar.” * 

“ Ves, have you not heard of them ? ” 
goes on Mrs. Wilcott unrelentingly. 

Yes, I have heard of them,” says Mrs. 
Barrington, playing with her spoon. 

“ Oh, you have ! ” as if scenting prey. 


HER LAST THROW. 


The northern Barringtons she can prove 
to be nobodies in a moment — if this womati 
is connected with //lem — — 

“Yes,” says Mrs. Barrington with ^ 
lovely smile directed straight at her tor- 
mentor. From you. Now!" 

Mrs. Wilcott cast a furious glance at her, 
that is only partly concealed beneath a 
bland laugh. 

“ Ah, so clever. But you are very clever, 
I hear,” says she meaningly. 

“ I think Barrington such a charming 
name,” says Lady Severn nervously. 

“ So do I,” acquiesces Mrs. Wilcott. 
“ There are Barringtons in Ireland too ; in 
Dublin. You haven’t heard of them ? ” 

I have never been in Ireland, I regret 
to say,” Mrs. Barrington murmurs in her 
low voice, that has something of determined 
suppression in it. 

“ Oh, you are like me,” cries Fay. ‘‘ I 
always feel I want to go to Ireland to see 
those poor tenants, and those poorer land- 
lords. It would be so interesting.” 


HER LAST THROW, 


29 


“ Dear me ! Miserable savages — all ! ” 
says Mrs. Wilcott, uplifting her hands in 
horror. She has not done with Mrs. Bar- 
rington yet, however. The kindly inten- 
tion of taking her off the trail is unsuccessful 
so far. “ Your husband was in the army, 
I think ? ” says she, addressing the new 
comer with her most insinuating smile. 

No,” says Mrs. Barrington sharply. 
She looks round her as if for support. For 
the moment she has lost her self-control. 
A brilliant flush has risen to her cheeks, a 
strange light to her eyes. 

“ I hate army men,” says Fay hastily, 
who, in truth, has never met an officer in 
her life to speak to, having only just re- 
turned from a school at Brussels. “ They 
are so conceited. I’m so glad, Mrs. Bar- 
rington, your husband wasn’t one.” She 
laughs somewhat nervously, a glance at 
Pasco having startled her. He is singularly 
pale, and he is looking a little — a little dan- 
gerous, thinks Fay to herself. What on 
earth does that vulgar old woman mean by 


30 


HER LAST THROW. 


her examination of that pretty Mrs. Bar- 
rington ? a distinctly cross one too. 

Lady Severn, at this moment, leans 
towards Mrs. Barrington. 

“ I hear your conservatories are lovely 
this year,” she says kindly. I daresay 
my flowers are not to be compared to yours, 
judging from all I hear,” Avith a gracious 
smile ; “yet I should like you to see them. 
They say my late calceolarias are quite a 
success. Pasco ! ” turning to Mr. Severn, 
“will you take Mrs. Barrington through 
the houses ? It won’t take you very long, 
Mrs. Barrington,” turning back to her ; 
“ and knowing you to be quite a connoisseur 
about flowers, I should like you to give me 
your opinion.” 

“ Yes, come, Mrs. Barrington. I assure 
you my sister’s calceolarias are not to be 
despised,” says Pasco, stooping over Mrs. 
Barrington, and taking away her tea-cup. 
She rises, still in a strangely nervous, half- 
conscious fashion, and moves with him 
across the room and into the first conser- 


HER LAST THRO IV. 


3 * 


vatory at the end of it. Presently they are 
lost to view. 

She has money, one can see.^ ” says Mrs. 
Wilcott. “ I daresay, after all, it won’t be 
so bad a match for dear Pasco as it /oo/^s /*' 
Lady Severn makes a movement that her 
little sister understands. It means that her 
dearest Nettie is going to be angry. She 
therefore steps hurriedly into the breach. 
Because, when Nettie is angry, she is so 
sorry afterwards that the little sister cannot 
bear to see it. 

Who has money ? ” cries she, in her 
pretty inquisitive way, that means so little. 
“And is Mr. Severn going to make a good 
marriage ? ” She has been so short a time 
at home that she has not yet brought her- 
self to call Pasco or his brother Ernest, who 
stays with him when on leave, by their 
Christian names. 

You have so lately come amongst us,” 
says Mrs. Wilcott, with truly terrible bon-' 
homie., “ that you cannot be expected to 
know the ins and outs of our small interests. 


32 


HER LAST THRO IV. 


But I have /leard that Pasco is very much 

epris with Mrs. Barrington, and that 

You know whether there is truth in the re- 
port, dear Lady Severn, don’t you ? ” 

“ I don’t, indeed,” says Lady Severn, 
icily. She has so far recovered herself 
that she can now speak with the regulation 
calm. I never permit myself to pry into 
the concerns of my neighbors.” 

Her look is a direct sneer. Mrs. Wilcott 
wisely accepts it as a dismissal. She rises 
and bids Lady Severn adieu with the hap- 
piest air in the world ; squeezing her hand, 
and looking all the friendliest things possi- 
ble at Fay, who refuses to acknowledge 
them. 


HER LAST THROW. 


33 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ She’s fancy free, but sweeter far 
Than many plighted maidens are.” 

“Well, wasn’t she a pigf" says Miss 
Ashton after Mrs. Wilcott has gone, turn- 
ing to her sister. 

“ Oh ! darling child ! what a word ! ” re- 
proachfully. 

“ A very good onej” with a willful gri- ' 
mace. Just suits her.” 

At this moment the door opens, and Cap- 
tain Severn — Ernest — the third of the 
brothers, enters the room. 

Who are you anathematizing t ” asks 
he. Fay is as new to him as he is to her, 
and therefore they regard each other with 
a good deal of interest. As yet their 
acquaintance is only a week old, and during 
that time they have only met twice. 


34 


HER LAST THROW, 


“ Ah, you have come just in time to de- 
fend me,” cries Fay saucily. I was just 
calline Mrs. Wilcott bad names, and Nettie 
was scolding me.” 

She has heard nothing about his engage- 
ment to Miss Wilcott, and therefore makes 
this little speech about his fiancees mother 
with all the insouciance in the world. Lady 
Severn colors warmly, but Ernest bursts 
out laughing. 

“ You can hardly call her bad names 
enough to satisfy me',' says he, mischievous- 
ly, rather enjoying Lady Severn’s confusion. 

Pelt her with them, and Fll give you 
every assistance in my power.” 

“ My dear Ernest,” says Lady Severn, 
rather shocked at this treatment of his 
prospective mother-in-law. After marriage 
it is generally allowable, but before ! 

“You see. He quite agrees with me,” 
says Fay, nodding her little dark head. 
“ She is a very horrid old woman. I like 
her daughter a great deal better than I like 
her. Don’t you, Captain Severn ? ” 


HER LAST THROW. 


35 


Severn gives way to mirth again. 

“Well, she’s younger/’ says he, as if 

cautiously ; but on the whole ” 

Certainly yes. She isn’t much either/’ 
says the girl with a dainty shrug of her 
shoulders. 

“ Oh ! well, I can’t go so far as that with 
you,” says Severn gravely. I'd say she 
was very much . There is a good deal of her, 
don’t you think ? ” 

Ernest, it isn’t right of you,” says Lady 
Severn, frowning. You should not lead 
Fay on to say things she will regret after.” 

“ I shan’t regret a word about the Wil- 
cotts,” says Fay. ‘‘ I don’t care for them 
at all. Not a little bit.” 

“ Captain Severn is engaged to Miss 
Wilcott,” says Lady Severn abruptly. 

Fay turns and looks at him. Slowly the 
hot blood mounts to her brow. 

Oh ! ” says she in a low tone. There 
is a world of reproach — of anger — of con- 
tempt in the exclamation. Then she throws 
up her head. “ I am sorry I cannot con- 


36 


HER LAST THROW. 


gratulate you upon your choice,” says she 
with distinct defiance. 

“ Poor Jessica,” says he, flushing in turn 
under that contemptuous glance. 

As if indeed he finds it more than he can 
endure, he now addresses himself to Lady 
Severn. 

“ You will be at their tennis party to- 
morrow, I suppose,” says he. 

“ Yes, if the day is fine.” 

“ Sure to be. Miss Ashton,” with a slight 
look at Fay, who is standing at the window 
with her back turned to him, “ has not seen 
The Park yet, I suppose 1 ” 

“ Not yet.” 

I hope. Miss Ashton,” teazingly, it 
will please you more than the unhappy 
possessor of it. It is quite perfect in its 
way.” 

No answer. 

“ Y es, quite a show place,” says Lady 
Severn hastily, who knows her little sister 
well enough to understand that she is now 
in one of her naughty moods. 


HER LAST THROW, 


37 


“If you said * s/iozay* it would suit its 
mistress thoroughly,” says Fay, without 
turning round. “I shan’t go with you, 
Nettie, I hate places where one is ex- 
pected to admire, and wonder, and praise at 
every moment.” 

“ I don’t think they will ask you to fatigue 
yourself to that extent,” says Severn, plain- 
ly amused. “ By-the-bye, may I ask you 
what you are admiring and wondering at so 
diligently out there ? Let me see if I c''*i’t 
wonder too.” 

He crosses the room, and, taking up iiis 
position by her side, pretends to study the 
landscape, until at last Fay, whose tempers 
are at all times the vaguest clouds, gives 
way, and with a half shy, half coquettish 
glance at him from under her long lashes, 
breaks into a soft little laugh. 

Having achieved his purpose, and re- 
stored her to good humor, and a seat where 
he can watch the passing expressions on 
her charming face, Severn gives his atten- 
tion once more to his sister-in-law. 


38 


HER LAST THROW, 


Did Mrs. Wilcotttell you that Wylding 
is staying with them again ? ” 

Her nephew ? No. I thought there 
was some disagreement there. That she 
— well — expressed a wish that he would 
keep away from The Park.” 

“ I expect Jessica over-ruled all that. At 
all events he came down yesterday.” 

Jessica seems very fond of him. She 
treats him quite like a brother.” 

“ Ye — es ! ” says Severn, in a peculiar 
tone, his eyes on the ground. Then : “ I 
suppose you saw he was victorious in that 
case ‘ Bunter v. Shields.’ Carried all before 
him. A very eloquent defence. The wind- 
ing up I hear was splendid. They say he 
is one of the most rising barristers in Lon- 
don.” 

He looks clever — and he is certainly 
interesting. At least I think him so.” 

So does J essica 1 ” — with the same cu- 
rious air as before. I th-mk him a good 
sort of fellow enough. He make the best 
part of his income out of theatrical squab- 


HER LAST THROW. 


39 


bles. They call him the stage lavvyer in 
town.” 

Ah ! Well — I daresay it pays him,” 
vaguely. “ Do you know you just missed 
Mrs. Barrington ? ” 

“ Was she here 1 ” 

Y es. And Pasco — came in almost with 
her.” 

“ Not quite, you think ? ” laughing. 

No,” says Fay suddenly. '• The mo- 
ment after. I saw him ride up to the door. 

Don’t you think ” eagerly — “ that she 

is lovely ? ” 

“ I do indeed. You see there is one 
point on which we can agree,” says he. I 
think her even more than that — distinctly 
fascinating.” 

“ Pasco is ” Lady Severn hesitates. 

Do you think, Ernest, that he ” 

“ It has grown beyond thinking,” says 
Severn. “ I never saw a fellow so much in 
love in my life. ‘And really one can scarce- 
ly wonder at it.” 

“ But,” nervously, who is she ? ” 


40 HER LAST THRO tv. 

“Oh Nettie!” cries Fay, with amused 
reproach. “ That is just what Mrs. Wil- 
cott was saying all the time. She has con- 
taminated you. What does it matter who 
Mrs. Barrington is, so long as she can look 
like a beautiful dream ? 

“Yes. That is all very well until it 
comes to a question of marryingV^xl' says 
Lady Severn. “ And I confess Mrs. Wil- 
cott has made me feel nervous about her. 
You see if — if she wasn’t anybody — if she 
turned out to be a person of low birth, I 
mean — it would be very awkward for 
Pasco.” 

“ Perhaps she is an adventuress 1 A 
criminal ! A female poisoner 1 ” says Ernest. 
“ Good heavens 1 what should we do then ? 
She might make away with the entire 
family.” 

“ Still, it isn’t a jesting matter,” says 
Lady Severn. 

“ I expect Pasco will make it his business 
to find out, before finally committing him- 
self,” says Severn contentedly. “ And if 


nER LAST THROW. 


41 


she does happen to .belong to Manchester 
or Birmingham, I confess I for one could 
forgive her on account of her face.” 

So could I,” cries Fay. I should like 
to have her for my sister. I think she has 
such a sweet expression.” 

Y es, such a good face,” agrees Lady 
Severn. She looks j ust like a woman who 
has never had a bad thought in her mind 
in all her life. It is to me the purest face.” 

“ Barrington isn’t half a bad name, either,” 
says Ernest. 

“ And certainly she has money,” says 
Lady Severn, in a practical tone. 


42 


HER LAST THROW. 


CHAPTER V. 

** Love he comes, and love he tarries, 

Just as fate or fancy carries ; 

Longest stays, when sorest chidden ; 

Laughs and flies, when press’d and bidden.” 

It is now close upon evening. A hot, 
languorous evening. There had been rain 
last night, and to-day, as if to make up for 
it, has been more than usually sultry. Up 
above in the pale blue sky not a cloud is to 
be seen, and down below, where all the earth 
lies heavy beneath the sun’s hot rays, not 
so much as one sweet, cool, refreshing 
breeze comes to stir the drowsy air. 

The very river that runs below the ten- 
nis grounds, though swollen by the torrents 
that fell at midnight, now flows but lazily 
between its banks, as if too overcome by 
the great heat to make any haste towards 


HER LAST THROW. 


43 


the great ocean — its goal — far, far away 
behind the misty hills. 

The broad, placid bosom of this river lies 
white, silvery, tremulous, beneath the burn- 
ing glances of old Sol, its waters flush with 
the green meadows that guard it on either 
side. Large white lilies lie tossing sleepily 
from right to left, their broad green leaves 
dipping every now and then into the cooling 
water as though to refresh themselves. 

The banks are crowded with the yellow 
iris that rises tall and stately, and on them 
rest every now and then gaudy flies of all 
hues, their iridescent wings showing bril- 
liantly against the sunlight. 

Far away in the distance a quivering 
purple mist speaks of heat intolerable, and 
here on the tennis courts they have for the 
most part thrown aside their racquets at 
last, and are lounging in groups of twos and 
threes under huge white umbrellas, with a 
view to saving themselves from sunstrokes. 

Still, some adventurous spirits are to be 
found, strong to brave the maddening heat. 


HER last thro tv. 


A slight, meagre girl, bloodless to all ap- 
pearance, and with a skin distinctly yellow, 
is playing with a young man her direct 
counterpart, he being short, massive, pon- 
derous. He is plainly suffering as he runs 
hither and thither after the balls, but cour- 
age sustains him, and an undying desire 
to shine. In one sense he is shining as 
brilliantly as ever he himself could desire, 
but as a player his efforts are distinctly 
weak. He is evidently determined, how- 
ever, to do or die. 

It will be ‘ die,’ I think,” says a lean man 
of about thirty-five who is talking to Jessica 
Wilcott — has, indeed, been her shadow all 
day, if one can imagine so desirable a thing 
on such a tropical afternoon. Perhaps Miss 
Wilcott has imagined it. She certainly 
looks cooler — in better case — than those 
around her. Her pale, handsome face 
shows no sign of undue warmth. Her eyes 
are calm as usual. She looks, indeed, de- 
lightfully undisturbed. 


HER LAST THROW. 


45 


‘‘ Absurd, a man of his weight exerting 
himself like that on such a day,” she says 
contemptuously. She talks with a curious 
drawl, not unpleasant, but as if life was low 
within her. 

“ Why ? Very sensible / call it. I dare- 
say he wants to reduce it.” Her cousin, 
Gilbert Wylding, laughs as he says this, and 
looks at her. One has a vague feeling that 
he likes to look at her, that her cold, still 
manner, her clear cut profile, her dark, long, 
Jewish eyes have a certain fascination for 
him. 

He himself is an intelligent man, with the 
unmistakable legal stamp plain writ” 
upon him. He wears no moustache, no 
beard. His face, indeed, is devoid of cover- 
ing of any sort, and one feels it is well that 
it is so. A remarkable face, not easily read, 
with a strong square lower jaw and im- 
mense breadth of forehead. 

A stern face and hard, yet, withal, not 
without much human kindliness. There is 
too a trace of humor in it, that, but for his 


46 


HER last Throw. 


calling and the severity of the work that 
claims him, might have been more pro- 
nounced. 

“ His partner doesn’t want reducing at all 
events,” says Miss Wilcott. “ Did you ever 
see so thin a girl ? They say it is because 
she begins to play tennis at dawn, and 
never leaves off until the short night falls. 
She won everything last year at the tour- 
naments. Do you admire her ? ” 

“ I don’t care for lemons as a rule, ” says 
Mr. Wylding, “except in claret cup.” 

“ That is rather severe, isn’t it ? ” 

“ Not so severe as she is, at all events. 
Mark what balls she serves to that poor old 
man, her adversary. What on earth is he 
playing for at this time of life ” 

“He will do it, you know,” says Miss 
Wilcott with a little shrug. Nobody can 
prevent him. He is old Major Adams, 
and is popularly supposed to have been 
born before the flood. He still, however, 
goes on as gaily as ever. He, mdeed, has 


HER LAST THROW. 


47 


never learned the trick of growing' old 
gracefully.” 

Is that the old major ” 

Yes, the old man in the white flannel, a 

foretaste of his shroud I should ” 

“ Hope ? ” suggests her companion. 

Oh no, Fm not so selfish as that. The 
world is wide enough for us all. But I 
thought you knew him, you should. He’s 
been born a long, long time. I have heard 
that Adam was his younger brother, but 
one hears so many things.” 

Who is severe now t ” says Wylding. 

' «AmI?’* 

Rather ; however, I don’t complain so 
long as you are not severe to me. What a 
number of people you have here to-day.” 

Yes, and some new faces. That little 
girl over there, for example. You can just 
see her between the branches of the trees ; 
she is sitting on the swing. She is Miss 
Ashton, a step-sister of Lady Severn’s.” 

‘‘Yes, I can see her.” 

“ You can admire her at all events.” 


48 


HER LAST THROW. 


Can I ? I’m not sure,” with a meaning 
laugh. ‘‘ Is that Ernest Severn with her 
now ? ” 

Yes,!’ with a slight frown ; but whether 
at the name, or the insinuation in his speech, 
WylJing is at a loss to be sure. 

I have noticed her,” says he carelessly. 
“ She has chosen a capital place to escape 
the sunshine ” 

‘‘ Or observation,” says Miss Wilcott in- 
differently. 

In truth, the leafy shelter that Fay has 
chosen is so far out of the present world 
that surrounds her, as to make her practi- 
cally alone with Captain Severn. 

She is sitting on a fantastically arranged 
swing, and is idly tilting herself to and fro 
with the help of one small foot. She is 
evidently enjoying herself, and is looking 
supremely happy. No smallest idea of 
flirting with Ernest Severn has entered her 
head. She is, indeed, too young to life, to 
society, that the very fact that she knows 


HER LAST THRO IF. 


49 


him to be eng-aged to Jessica Wilcott would 
seem to her a thorough bar against amuse- 
ment of that kind. 

That she /t^cs Ernest she has admitted 
frankly ; not only to herself but to her sister, 
many times. That she thinks Jessica quite 
unsuited to him, she has admitted to her- 
self alone, as yet. 

Captain Severn is looking very happy, 
too. There is no denying that. The cer- 
tainty that his betrothed is being all things 
to her cousin at this moment seems to have 
no power to check the contentment he is 
feeling. It is eight days now since Fay 
came to stay with her sister, and already — 
already he has known bad hours, when 
regrets that mus^ be vain {^there lies their 
sting) have harassed him. Just now, how- 
ever, he is free from every care, and is 
ready to enjoy life with a glad heart. 

“ What is your real name ” asks he 
suddenly of the little creature who has 
been chattering gaily to him for the last 
half-hour. 


50 


HER LAST THROW 


« Fay ” 

“ Oh, nonsense.” 

“ Fairy, then. Fay would be the pet 
name for that, would it not ? ” 

Nonsense again ! I don’t believe you 
were actually christened by that eccentric 
though charming title.” 

“ No } ” she laughs a little and glances at 
him provokingly, and swings herself lightly 
away from him and then back again. 
“ Well, you are right for once. That must 
be a refreshing sensation (or you /'*' 

“ So it is, but — you don’t answer me, 
however.” 

Answer ? ” 

“ Y es. I want to know your real name.’* 
For what ? ” 

“It will make you yourself seem more 
real to me.” 

She laughs. 

“ Well, it is — Ashton.” 

** Oh, of course ! ” huffily. If you don’t 
wtsA me to know it ” 


HER LAST THROW. 


5 * 


I do, I think, after all,” says she, with a 

rather insincere air, however. “ It is 

You won’t like it. But it is That’s 

why I couldn’t bear to tell you. But — it is 

Now what would you think of a 

person who could call a poor, unconscious 
baby — Susannah ? ” 

I know what I should think of some 
one who should tell me stories. I don’t 
believe ia that name either.” 

“ Well, ‘ Fancy,’ then.” 

“ Fancy what ? ” 

Fancy Ashton, of course.” 

“ Oh, ^ Fancy ’ as a name !" He gives 
way to mirth in spite of himself. “ I don’t 
believe there was ever anyone so provoking 
as you,” says he, regarding her lovely saucy 
little face with ill-disguised admiration. 

‘‘ Well, it suits you, but ” 

But ! Unbeliever!” cries she with a 
pout. “ There is no pleasing you.” 

“ Oh, yes, there is,” with a meaning 
glance at her. 


52 


HER LAST THROW. 


“ You had better make up your mind to 
the Susannah,” says she. 

I couldn’t. I don’t believe any clergy- 
man worthy of the title would dare to 
christen you Susannah.” 

She breaks into merry laughter. Is there 
something mocking in it ? 

Ah ! There is no deceiving you,” cries 
she, still bubbling over with mirth. “ One* 
can see that Nevermind. I forgive you, 
although my best efforts have been thrown 
away. In vain have I dissembled. Come,’’ 
slipping from her swing to the ground, •• I 
see an empty court, and the day is cooler 
now. Let us try for victory again.” 

“ So you really zvo7it tell me ? ” say he, 
looking at her. “ I don’t care. I shall find 
out from your sister.” 

This defiance seems to amuse her more 
than all that has gone before. 

“ Do,” says she. “ And be sure you ask 
her if it isn’t Susannah.” 

I certainly shan’t ask her anything so 
absurd as that,” says he. 


HER LAST THROW. 


53 


However, when he does ask her, it is to 
learn 'to his discomfiture that Susannah is 
her name. This little Delilah had beguiled 
him. 

On their way to the court they met poor 
old Major Adams coming away from it, 
crestfallen, defeated, warm to a terrible 
degree. Fay, stopping, says a few pretty 
words to the tired old bore. 

How kind you can be,” says Severn, as 
he and she walk on again. 

“ I am always kind to every body, am I 
not ? ” 

“ Not to everybody. Only just now you 
have been very unkind to me.” 

“ Oh, to youl' saucily. “ You are ” 

eloquent pause. 

“ Thank you.” 

“ A sort of brother-in-law,” says she 
promptly, with the most innocent air in the 
world. “ You are Nettie’s brother, and as 
Nettie is my sister, why, of course,” trium- 
phantly, “ there you are ! ” 


54 


HER LAST THROW. 


‘‘Never heard anything clearer,” says 
Severn. 

“As to being kind to that poor old 
major,” says Fay presently, “somehow I 
always feel one should he. kind to very old 
people.” 

“ But with a limit, surely ? Once let the 
major begin to talk, and ” 

“Ah! That is just it ! Old people as a 
rule always want to talk. It is the only 
thing they can do. I'hey can’t run about 
as we can. I I'ke to let them say as much 
as ever they can I always seem to re- 
member, when with them, the one sad fact, 
that they have got so little more time left 
them in which to talk. Soon — terribly soon, 
the grave must open for them 1 ” 

Her tone has changed. She has grown 
strangely earnest. Severn looks at her in 
great astonishment. 

Who would have thought so frivolous, 
so bright, so flower-like a thing could have 
thought so deeply. In a moment, how- 
ever, she has recovered herself, and has 


HER LAST THROW, 


55 


cast — apparently — all sentiment behind 
her. 

“ There is Jessica,” says she, pointing to 
where Miss Wilcott is sitting talking lan- 
guidly to a gaunt old lady. Perhaps after 
all you had better go and ask her to play 
this set. She is alone now. I,” earnestly, 

can get some one else to be my partner.” 

‘‘ I have no doubt of it,” says he with un- 
intentional bitterness. “ Do you wish rne 
to go to Jessica ? ” 

“ Well — you see, Mr. Wylding has gone 
away,” says she, quite without meaning. 
“ Now she has got rid of him she will, of 
course, be wanting you.” 

“ Of course. And so Wylding has left 
her ? ” 

‘‘Yes. He is over there at the other 
end of the court with Pasco.” 

“ I wonder why you call Pasco by his 
Christian name, and not me } ” says he. 

“You?” She ponders for a second. 
“ Yes, it does sound funny, doesn’t it ? But 
I’ll call you Ernest if you like.” 


56 


HER LAST THROW, 


“ I should,” says he. “ And may I call 
you ” 

“ Susannah ? ” mischievously. 

‘^No, Fay.” 

Yes. There, go to Jessica.” 

“It looks as if you wanted me out of your 
way,” says he with a slight frown. “ By- 
the-bye, you told me your opinion of Jes- 
sica yesterday.” 

“Oh! That is unkind. You know I 
meant nothing — and as you would not let 
me know anything, you should be the last 
to bring up that subject. I admire her 
immensely. I think her really lovely ! ” says 
she with enthusiasm. 

“ You have no fault to find then ? ” with 
a rather sarcastic intonation that ruffles 
her. 

“ One,” says she. “ If I must admit her. 
Her voice annoys me. It is so slow — so 
drawlly. It is irritating. It is lifeless. 
She talks as though she were a fly in Oc- 
tober.” 


HER LAST THROW. 


57 


Captain Severn laughs rather constrain- 
edly. 

Oh ! And is it in October flies talk ? ” 
says he. How interesting ! After all, the 
one subject never mastered is natural 
history. It is always ftdl of surprises.” 

I .am going to sit down here,” says Fay 
very stiffly, stopping short beside a long 
garden chair, on which Lady Severn is 
seated talking to Mrs. Adams. 


ESR LAST THROW, 


5 » 


CHAPTER VI. 

“Yet the first brins;er of unwelcome news * 

Hath but a losing office : and his tongue 
Sounds ever after as a sullen bell, 

Remembered knolling a departed friend.” 

Mr. Wylding and Pasco Severn having- 
isolated themselves somewhat from those 
around, are engaged in an animated con- 
versation. Pasco had seen a good deal of 
the lawyer in town, and had taken a tre- 
mendous fancy to him — a fancy warmly 
returned. Just now, Wylding seems to 
have flung aside the man of law, and 
become as idle as the rest of them. It 
is a relief to find himself at last at anchor 
beside Pasco, who has always appeared 
to him to be a singularly earnest, strong 
man — a tenacious man in the midst of a 
frivolous generation. Of the three bro* 


HEU LAST THROW, 


59 


thers Pasco seems, to the thinking man of 
the world, by many miles the best. Sir 
George is big, burly, good-natured ; Ernest 
is — well, hardly worth considering, ac- 
cording to Wylding’s private belief. \ 
mere society butterfly. It would be invi- 
dious to suggest that circumstances rather 
than honest belief have brought to birth 
this severe criticism. 

Pasco, although pleased to be with Wyld- 
ing, has always an occupied air. He seems 
to be perpetually looking round for some- 
thing, some oncy hitherto absent. As a fact 
Mrs. Barrington, late though the hour is, 
has not put in an appearance. What has 
kept her } Suddenly his face brightens, his 
eyes light up. 

“ Oh ! there sh.Q is ! ” says he involuntarily. 

W ylding grows amused. 

No ? Really !” says he. 

At this Pasco laughs, amused too. 

“ Was it a betrayal ? ” says he. “ Well, 
she is worthy of it. As I have committed 
myself so far, I may as well take you on to 


6o 


HER LAST THROW 


the end. Don’t 3 'ou think there is — er — 
something very special about her ? ” 

He points to a group standing a good 
way off. 

‘‘ She’s a very pretty girl, no doubt,” says 
Wylding, who in his soul thinks the per- 
son he is regarding distinctly plain. 

She’s not a girl,” says Severn, pleased, 
however, at the tribute to his love. She’s 
a widow.” 

‘‘ A widow ? Why any one ” 

He breaks off suddenly, and fumbling 
impatiently for his eyeglass,'' presses it into 
his right eye. 

By Jove!” says he, as if his breath has 
been taken away. 

‘^What?” 

What the deuce brings her here ? ” 

“ Who ? ” asks Pasco again. 

Why that — woman. The one standing 
at the right of the group.” 

A card, I suppose. That’s Miss Aid- 
worth.” 

“ Nonsense 1 I know her. I mean the 


HER LAST THROW. 


•6i 

woman with the lilac flowers in her bonnet/’ 
“ The lilac. Why, that is Mrs. Barring- 
ton,” says Pasco. 

Mrs. ” he pauses. “ Mrs. Barrings 

ton / Who told my aunt to ask her here ? ” 
“ What do you mean ? ” says Severn, 
with a sudden glance that has something 
savage in it. 

Mean } I mean that that woman over 

there has no right to be there. She ” 

“ Speak maxi ! ” says Severn, seeing he 
pauses. Pasco’s face is livid now, there is 
something murderous in his eyes. 

“Why, my dear fellow,” Wylding hesi- 
tates as if overwhelmed by thought, and 
now bursts forth. By George ! itwillhQ 
a blow to my aunt ! Speak. It is I whor^;^ 
speak ! Why that woman over there was 
the most notorious woman in town three 
years ago. She ” 

Damn you, sir ! How dare you say 
such things of her t ” cries Pasco violently. 
He is as white as death. He has grasped 
Wylding by his arm, high up, and makes as 


62 


HER LAST THROW. 


though he would spring at him. Wylding 
by a sharp movement, not a hit too soon 
accomplished, shakes himself free. 

“ Great heavens ! ” says he. “ I never 
suspected this. I thought when you 
spoke, it was of the girl down there— I ” 

You are a liar — a damned liar! ” says 
Pasco, trembling from head to foot. If 
you have a last remnant of manhood left in 
you, you will ” 

Be silent,” says the other quickly. 

Think of all these people. Already they 
are looking our way. Be careful, Severn, 
if only for,” the words stick in his throat, 
‘Tor her sake.” They must, however, be 
said for his sake. 

“ Come here then,” says Pasco, drawing 
him behind a heavy laurel hedge. “ Now 
then, sir, speak. The truth 1 Believe me 
you shall answer to me — in blood — for 
every lie you have uttered against that 
lady.” 

For every lie. I would to Heaven they 
were lies, and that my blood could wash 


HER Last tHroU^. 


«3 

them out,” says Wylding- passionately. 
“You know how I have regarded you, 
Severn, that never* before have I given a 
man my friendship — until I met you, I lived 
on acquaintanceship alone. It sufficed me 
— hut to you,, I have given my Would 
I wilfully hurt or insult you ? I entreat 
you to be calm.” 

‘‘To the point, sir,” cries Pasco in a 
miserable attempt at superiority. The 
other’s evident and most unmistakeable 
sorrow has sunk into his soul, and withered 
it ; truth lies within that grief. 

“ You would know all ? ” says Wylding, 
very pale now, but thinking it best to con- 
ceal nothing. 

“ All.” 

*• I defended her,” says Wylding in a low 
tone. He now is trembling. God alone 
knows how he shrinks from his task. “You 
must have read it in the papers. The case 
of that dancing girl, ‘ Cora Strange,’ and 
her claim on the property of the late Lord 
Ikon?” 


64 


HER LAST THROIV. 


“ ‘ Cora Strange, oh, no, no ! ” says Se- 
vern violently. “ I apologize for that word 
‘lie,’ Wylding, but you mistake, yes — mis- 
take ! You,” faintly — ‘‘ There Is a mis- 

take somewhere.” 

“ There is no’ mistake here^^ says Wyld- 
ing slowly, yet with decision. “ As I tell 
you, I defended her and she won her case. 
He left her all his money. At least, as much 
as he could.” 

“ Well, but she might perhaps have been 
a cousin, a niece, a daughter. Now-a-days 
people of great respectability go upon the 
stage, who Is to say that she ” 

“ She was his mistress !'' says Wylding 
in a whisper almost, but without an attempt 
at compromise. 

There is a silence that might well be 
termed fearful. Anguish unspeakable fills 
it. Wylding, expecting nothing but an 
attack, judging by Severn’s wild face, stands 
waiting, but Pasco does nothing. He 
stands silent, motionless. He has forgotten 
all about the other This horrible thing 


HER L AST THRO IK . 65 

that has fallen into his day has destroyed 
all minor sentiments. He can feel no lon- 
ger. Neither grief, nor rage, nor fear — all 
is a blank. 

Wylding, frightened by his appearance, 
at last rouses him. 

“ Go home,” says he. It can’t have 
gone so far ye/. Be thankful that you 
know the truth in time ; many a man ” 

“ I am not thankful,” says the other in a 
queer tone. “ And as for knowing — after 
all it makes no dilference. It would have 
been better otherwise — different 
but . . we . . we love each other.” 

“ You are not well, Severn. Go to your 
own house. Rest will bring sense, know- 
ledge, comfort.” 

Comfort ! ” Oh, the desolation in that 
good word. 

Certainly,” says the other with a far 
greater assurance than he feels. If he had 
not been safe in the belief that Pasco’s ad- 
miration was that ugly girl, would he ever 
have made that disastrous disclosure ? Y es, 


66 , HER LAST THROW. 

yes, surely. What sort of a friend would 
he be to know a thing of that sort and yet 
conceal it ? Yet now at heart he is sore 
indeed, that his should have been the hand ! 

“'Would you rather have learned it 
later ? ” asks he, his own grief making his 
tone stern. “ Hear all, Severn. She was 
a dancer. Nothing but a ballet-girl. Of 
good family, I believe, but she ran away 
from 'home early and gave herself up to 
ambition — of a sort. She happened to 
meet with Lord Ilton, an elderly man, and 
of good character, I understand. But men 
are mortal, and he fancied her. His own 
wife was in a mad-house, hopelessly insane 

for fifteen years before he saw Miss 

Mrs. you know,” confusedly, ‘^and ac- 

cording to our clever laws he could not 
therefore marry again so long as the mad 
wife lived.” 

T ell me this, if he could have married 
her, would you have advised him to take, 
that step ? ” asks Severn, laying a cold, 
clutching hand upon his shoulder. Wyld- 


HER LAST THROW. . 67 

ing s eyes sink, but a determination to stop 
this disastrous affair at all risks is strong 
enough to aid him to a just answer. 

“ No,” says he reluctantly, but ccrt?inly. 

“ Her life before that was ” 

Oh ! ” cries Severn, releasing him with 
a gesture that almost compels his silence. 

Oh ! ” and that only. It is the merest 
sound, but he staggers back and covers his 
eyes with his hands. His friend has ‘dealt 
him his death stroke. He moves away, 
walking like a drunken man. Wylding 
follows him. 

‘ “ This will wear off, Severn,” says he 

stupidly, nervously, hardly knowing what 
he says. 

Never ! ” vehemently. “ And see here.” 
He turns to Wylding with a sort of dogged 
fury in his look and tone. “ Y ou may all 
hound her down and try to ruin her and 
drag her in the dust, and though I might 
believe all you say, still, I shall be true to 
her so long as she remains true to me.” 


68 


HER LAST THROW. 


“ If that is your last word,” says Wyld- 
ing, “ I warn you that I shall take means 
to prevent your achieving your mad pur- 
pose.’* 

Severn hurls at him a savage word and 
disappears. 

A determination arrived at by a man of 
Wylding’s stamp is not lightly hid aside. 
Making his way to Sir George Severn’s 
side, he stubbornly leads him away from 
the others, and pours into his horrified ears 
the true history of Mrs. Barrington. 

But, my dear fellow, you must be mis- 
taken,” says Sir George, horror-stricken. 

She is a most respectable person — excel- 
lent references. My man of business will tell 
you all about her. I’ve let her my own 
house — small place — Priory, you know.” 

“ The Priory ? — a fit residence for her, 
on my soul,” says Wylding, with a harsh 
laugh. He is terribly disquieted still, as he 
thinks of that last glance Pasco had given 
him. “ I tell you. Sir George, there is no 
mistake. I tell you, too, it is your duty as 


HER LAST THROW. 69 

his brother to go to her, to lay the facts 
before her, to ” 

“ Good heavens 1 The grave must be a 
good place after all,” says Sir George, 
groaning heavily, and lifting protesting 
hands to the sky. 


70 


HE£ LAST THROW, 


CHAPTER VII. 

“ Thy leaf has perished in the green.* 

“ Never morning wore 
To evening, but some heart did break.” 

When he enters her drawing-room next 
morning, however — though his heart is dy- 
ing within him, still his demeanor is all that 
of the ordinary courteous, if somewhat 
abrupt, Englishman. He has seen very little 
of his tenant up to this. But Wylding had 
given him to understand that she would 
probably be an unscrupulous person, and 
that if Pasco had proposed marriage to her, 
would keep him to his bargain, or else make 
another very advantageous one for herself. 

The room is in shade, all the blinds hav- 
ing been pulled down in a vain endeavor to 
exclude the heat. These are silk blinds of 
a soft rose color. 


HER LAST THROW. 


V 


“ Meretricious ! ” mutters Sir George to 
himself, being naturally prejudiced. The 
room being empty he has time to make re- 
flections, and to look arou:id him. 

It must be confessed it is a charming 
room — a very bower of roses. Exquisite 
bowls and foreign vases are filled to over- 
flowing with rich drooping Gloire de Dijons, 
whilst other homelier roses lie in rich pro- 
fusion on every table and cabinet. The 
floor is waxed and partially covered by a 
huge Turkey carpet, here and there lie 
Persian prayer rugs ; in the corners tall 
palms rest against dainty screens, and the 
walls are covered here and there, at long 
distances, by a few carefully-selected water- 
colors. 

Sir George is looking at one of these 
when the door opens and Mrs. Barrington 
comes in. She is looking singularly lovely 
even for her, and advances to meet him with 
a bright smile. Something in his return 
gaze, however — something — what is it ? — 
kills her smile almost at its birth. Her 


72 


HER LAST THROM'. 


heart gives one great leap, and that old, 
horrible physical pain seems to clutch it 
again. She feels she has grown white to 
her very lips, but she so far struggles with 
the growing faintness that is threatening to 
overcome her, to stand upright, and even 
speak to him with at least an assumption of 
calm. 

‘‘ You wish to see me — to speak to me ? ” 
says she, her voice cold as death, arid as 
hard. That sudden destruction has come 
upon her she knows perfectly. It is all 
over, that one ma 1 dream of respectability 
— of hope — of rest and peace. 

Yes ; and on a rather unhappy busi- 
ness,” says Sir George, staring at his hat 
and wishing himself dead. ^‘You— er — 
you— — ” 

Yes ? ” in an uncompromising tone. If 
he had hoped that she would have helped 
him he finds himself mistaken; and yet. 
after one short nervous glance at her face, 
he sees that she knows. 


HER LAST THROW. 


73 


“ Mrs. Barrington,” says he quickly, 

believe me when I say that it is with terri- 
ble regret I come here to-day. Be frank 
with me. Perhaps,” doubtfully, “ perhaps, 
after all, you will be able to explain 
to ” 

“ Perhaps,” says she, with a strange 
smile. Some note in her voice and a touch 
of defiance in her eyes hardens him towards 
her. Her very lips are white, but there is 
an open determination to fight it out to the 
last that angers him and lowers her still 
further in his estimation. If she had given 
in at once, had had recourse to tears, to 
entreaties— but she looks strong, fierce, 
almost bold. 

^‘You can answer me one question, at 
least,” says he stiffly. He has not sat down, 
and now rests his hand upon the back of a 
chair near her. “ Who was Mr. Barring- 
ton ? ” 

“ An unfortunate question. It is indeed 
the one I cannot answer 


HER LAST THROW. 

You cannot ? ” sternly. You refuse ! ” 

Certainly not. I merely said I could 
not.” 

“ You mean by that ? ” 

“ That I don’t know myself.” She looks at 
him fixedly. “ There was no Mr. Barring- 
ton,” says she. 

Ah ! I am then to understand ? ” 

“ Anything you wish. I suppose / am 
to understand that you would like a new 
tenant here ? ” 

That, of course,” says Sir George coldly. 
“ There is, however, something more. I 
have heard — I have been told — that my 
brother Pasco has been seen here very fre- 
quently of late.” 

“ Have you ? ” 

I have said so,” returns Sir George, 
frowning heavily. “ I see I may as well 
speak openly. All your early life has been 
made known to me, and therefore it is de- 
sirable that any — friendship between you 
and my brother should at once come to : n 
end.” 


tiER LAST THROW. 75 

“ That is a matter for consideration,” 
replies she calmly, almost insolently. Her 
beautiful face is set like marble. She is quite 
composed now, with an ease and a grace 
unspeakable. She leans backwards, takes 
a huge fan off a table behind her, and opens 
it. Her consummate self-possession des- 
troys the small grains of it that Sir George 
can command. 

I am to understand ? ” says he 

again, stammering. He stops short, and 
she breaks into a low but mirthless laugh. 

You are bent on understanding a great 
deal, it seems to me,” says she. “ I am 
afraid it will prove too much for you. Why 
don’t you give it up, or else say plainly 
what it is you do want to understand ? ” 

I will,” says Sir George, with sudden 
fire, the blood mounting to his brow. No 
one likes being held up to ridicule. Do 
you mean that under the circumstances 
you are still determined to keep my brother 
to any rash proposals he may have made 
to you ? ” 


7^ 


HER LAST THRO tv.' 


‘‘ I don’t think he thought them rash.’* 

“ They were, nevertheless, under ” 

He pauses. He has been about to repeat 
himself and again incur further ridicule. 
He is not to escape, however. 

Under the circumstances,” supplements 
she, smiling, “ there is nothing like iteration, 
after all. It impresses one so. You were 
saying. Sir George ? ” She leans to- 

wards him. 

“ I was asking you,” says he, “ whether 
you meant to keep my brother to his word.” 

“ What word ? ” 

“To any offer of marriage he may have 
made you.” 

A thought seems to strike her at this 
instant. It renders her mute. Once again 
that awful pain grasps her heart. He — Ai 
—could /le have sent this man ? • 

“ Am I to regard you as your brother’s 
envoy ? ” asks she with parched lips. ‘‘ Has 
he sent you here to-day — to ask that ques- 
tion ? ” 


rtkk LAST Throw. 77 

“He is entirely ignorant of my coming,” 
replies Sir George, who is far too much of a 
gentleman to even see the grand opportu- 
nity he has created for himself. The old 
copy-books tell us that an opportunity 
once lost is never to be regained.” Sir 
George has lost his. 

Mrs. Barrington leans back in her chair, 
and for the first time since Sir George en- 
tered the room a soft flush colors her cheek. 
He has not been false then ! All is not lost 
yet. And this man — his brother — by what 
authority has he come here to insult her ? 
Alas, she ought to be used to it ! Has not 
insult, open and covert, been her food 
through life ? Save from one only — that 
man w^ho now lies dead ! Y et, had he 
lived, would she have been true to him t 
She had not loved him. She had never 
loved until she came down to this quiet, 
remote little country spot, so hidden away 
from the wide, horrible, staring world that 
she had believed she and her past would be 
safe here — safe from discovery. She had 


HP.R LAST THROW. 


7S 

only desired peace from it, and lo ! it had 
given her all things. Love. Such love. 
She clenches her hands together. Oh, re- 
morseless Heaven ! Does he know ? Have 
they told him f 

“ He — your brother — he knows nothing, 
then ? ” Her lips can barely frame the 
question. 

“ I cannot go so far as that. Yes. He 
knows. He knows everything — except 
that I am here to-day.” 

To this she says nothing. He knows ! — 
and has not come to her. A wild storm of 
passion seizes upon her and .shakes her 
very soul. Ah ! to see him ! —to have him 
nexr her! — to compel him to look into her 
eyes. By the power of her own love, that 
seems to rend her in this her last hour, she 
knows she can bring him back to her, be 
his revolt never so strong. Sir George’s 
voice breaks in upon her reverie and brings 
her back to the present. 

“ You have not answered me,” says he 
“ If there wasdiX\ engagement between you 


HER LAST THRO IV. 


79 


and him, I wish to hear from your own lips 
that no7V it is an end.” 

“You will never hear that from me,” 
cries she, rising suddenly and confronting 
him like a thing at bay — some fierce wild 
thing that will not be tamed. “ Who Tire you, 
that you should come here to-day to inter- 
fere between him and me ? How you 
come ? I will give no word — no assurance. 
He is mine — mine, I tell you ! ” throwing 
out her arms with an indescribable gesture. 
“ I de/y you — all of you, to take him from 
me. Take everything else — my hopes — 
my name — my character!” She breaks 
into terrible laughter here, and raises her 
hands and presses them with all her force 
against each side of her head. “ My 
character ! . . . . But you cannot take 

himr 

“ I know mine is a difficult mission,” says 
Sir George, now growing once again a little 
uncertain, “ but, of course, compensation 
would be made you ; you would suffer, and 
we— he ” 


8o 


HEJS LAST THRO IV. 


She has turned upon him now like a 
tigress. Her beautiful eyes are glaring, 
she gasps. 

“ No, no ! He, of course, has nothing to 
do with my proposition,” says he, feeling 
cowed in spite of his honest manhood that 
has nothing to reproach itself with. But 
— if you will permit me to ” 

He stops dead short. She has come a 
little closer to him, and has raised her right 
hand. It points to the door. Not a word 
passes her lips ; yet mechanically he obeys 
her. He takes up his hat, makes her a 
silent salutation, and goes down the room. 
A bitter feeling is his as he takes his 
homeward way. He has gained nothing 
by his visit to her, and he has lost his sense 
of dignity. She — that woman — had ordered 
him from her presence as though he were 
a whipped cur, and he had obeyed her. And 
— she will marry Pasco in spite of all. Of 
that he feels assured. 

A turn of the road brings him face to 
face with the latter. 


HER LAST THROW. 


8l 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ I’ll give thee misery, for here she dwells ; 

This is her house, where the sun never dawns.” 

A moment’s glance at his brother’s face 
makes him thankful he had walked. It 
would have been thoroughly unpleasant 
to have had a groom as witness of the scene 
that is so surely coming. Pasco’s eyes are 
brilliant, his mouth forbidding. There is 
something dangerous in his whole air. No 
one knows, save he himself and One other, 
how he got through the night. The morn- 
ing, at all events, has shown the marks that 
terrible vigil has left upon him. He is 
changed — so haggard that Sir George’s 
kindly heart bleeds for him. Has it gone 
so far ? 

“ You have been with her } ” says Pasco, 
striding up to his brother with a murderous 


82 


HER LAST THROW. 


hatred in his glance, ^^what have you said 
to her ? ” 

“You shouldn’t take it like this,” says 
Sir George. “It was for sake I went 
at all.” 

“ What have you said to her ? ” repeats 
the other, in a dull, wild sort of way. 

“ Very little, and that to no purpose.” 

. “ I’m glad of that — if I can be glad of any- 
thing. What had you to do with it ? Look 
here,” savagely, “ I’m going to her now, 
and if I hear you have insulted her in any 
way, brother or no brother, you shall 
answer to me for it.” 

“ You don’t know what you are saying,” 
says Sir George, contemptuously, losing his 
own temper in a degree. “ As to insult- 
ing ” 

The sneer is hardly past his lips when 
the other, maddened by misery, has sprung 
upon him. There is a silent swaying toge- 
ther of two bodies, and then Sir George, 
being far the stronger, presses his brother 


HER LAST THROW. 


83 


back against the wall that bounds the right 
side of the wall. 

Are you mad ? ” says he breathing 
heavily. Pasco ! — think ! There ! ” pant- 
ing still, and looking at his brother as the 
latter stands staring back at him — a little 
sobered perhaps. “ I have done all I can 
for you. Follow out your own destruction 
as quickly as you can, I shall not interfere 
with you again.” 

You have come to a wise conclusion. It 
would be useless,” says Pasco, doggedly. 
“ I asked her to marry me on Tuesday last. 
I am going to her now to ask her to renew 
the promise she gave me then.” 

^^Go,” says Sir George bitterly. “I 
suppose you know what you are doing ? ” 

I know that I shall lose all belonging 
to me, but I shall gain hert' 

A gain indeed ! ’• with increasing bitter- 
ness. 

“ I know all that you would say. I am 
prepared for everything. I have thought 


84 irER LAST THROW. 

it all out. If she will come with me, there 
are other worlds where one’s past misfor- 
tunes are unknown.” 

Other worlds ! With your own world 
well lost.” 

‘‘ Well lost indeed,” feverishly. If it is 
ior her. There. Go. You cannot under- 
stand.” He turns away. 

‘‘ Stay. One moment !” says Sir George, 
striding after him. “ Pasco ! for heaven’s 
sake pause, take a day — to consider. It is 
your whole existence, remember, that lies 
in the balance ; forget what we shall feel — 
think of yourself only. Do not wilfully 
fling your entire life into ’’ — with an expres- 
sive passionate gesture — the gutter.” 

'• I shall give my life to her I" says Pas- 
co, doggedly ; J^nd throwing off his brother’s 
restraining arm, strides away. 

He had had no doubt of the truth. This 
thought strikes Sir George forcibly as he 
sees him disappear up the road and into the 
gates of The Priory. No doubt, still ! 
Sir George, with a smothered and vehement 


HER LAST THROW. 


8S 


exclamation, gives up hope, and goes home- 
ward with bent head, and a most sorrowful 
spirit. 


She is sitting quite still. It might almost 
seem that she had never stirred since Sir 
George’s departure. Her head is a little 
bent; there is a terrible look in the usually 
calm, reserved face. She rises as he en- 
ters and stands confronting him — not giving 
her hand or the welcoming smile that has 
grown so dear to him, nothing, but that 
long, long gaze that seems as though it 
would rive asunder the veil that conceals 
his soul from hers. 

He too makes no advance. He stands 
silent, just looking at her with such a world 
of reproach and despair in his face as almost 
kills her. She would scarcely have known 
him. His beautiful face is lined and aged 
with misery. His eyes are dull. A most 
sorrowful sternness curves his lips. 


86 


HER LAST TUROVA. 


At last it grows beyond bearing, and she 
speaks. 

“ You have found me out,” says she, the 
words dropping frozenly from between her 
parched lips. She shows no sign of feeling, 
however, except that the purple pansies at 
her throat are quivering. He can see 
that. 

It is true, then ? ” says he. 

“All true! All! You have come as my 
judge and executioner — r— ” she would 
have braved it out, but suddenly she chokes 
and her eyes fall before his, her head droops. 
‘‘Oh!” moans she as if dying. In truth, 
at this^ moment, the bitterness of death is 
hers. 

. “ Sir George was here ? ” He has not 

attempted to go near her. 

“ Yes.” 

“He was ” 

“You must not blame him. Not a word 
must be said against him,” says she in an 
eager whisper. “ He was kind, forbearing. 
Oh! too kind — to such as ” 


HER LAST THROW. 


87 


“ Be silent ! " interrupts he sharply. 
“Let us talk this out. It has nothing to 
do with him or another, only with you and 
me. That man they tell me of — he — ” 
“ Lord Ikon ! ” says she very quietly. It 
is the quietness of despair. “You would 
know about him. Y ou had hoped perhaps 
there was some mistake somewhere that I 
might have cleared up. But there is none. 
You have heard the real truth at last. My 
name is not Barrington ! I was never mar- 
ried ! And he — Wton— he- ^ — ” she sinks 
heavily into a chair as if gasping for breath 
— “I was his mistress.” 

A strange silence has fallen upon the 
room. The fitful sunbeams straying from 
place to place rest at last lovingly on the 
hands that tover the poor, shamed face. 

“ You loved him ? ” says Severn at last, 
his tone Is so unreal that It startles her. 

“ Oh, no, no, NO ! ” cries she wildly. “ I 
have wronged you In every way, but not 
in that way. Not there. He was a good 
man ! Was kind to me. I think he loved 


88 


HER LAST THRO IK 


me. He would have married me but that 
his wife was alive, in a mad house. Within 
six months he died.” 

She pauses and pulls at the laces round 
her throat as if suffocating. 

“ He left me all he could leave me. It 
was a great deal. There was a law-suit, 
and Mr. Wylding defended me. I/e told 
you ? ” 

Severn makes a gesture of assent. 

“ Ah, yes ! There is no escape — none** 
says she. “ Well — well,” absently and 
slowly, as if hardly equal to the task of 
keeping her mind on her subject, “ he died 
and left me without fear of poverty. I did 
not love him, but I was grateful to him. I 
think,” hurriedly, “ I was more grateful to 
him for his kindness to me living than for 
his kindness when he was dead. But I did 
not know that until it was too late to tell 
him. He was,” slowly, ‘‘ the best man I 
evor knew.” 

And yet ” 


HER LAST THROW. 


89 


“ And yet all I had to give him, living or 
dea.l, was a bald gratitude. I gained my 
suit. Mr. Wylding gained it for me. He 
was enthusiastic about it, I remember, and 
was very sympathetic, and congratulated 
me afterwards on my victory. I wish he 
had been able to congratulate me on my 
death rather. See,” with a sudden des- 
perate gesture, “ what has come of it.” 

She rises and flings open a window as if 
gasping for air. Pasco is sitting quite still, 
his eyes on the ground. 

Don’t go on,” says he now, but in a 
lifeless sort of way. 

Oh, yes. I must make a finish. Such 
a story as mine,” bitterly, “ should not be 
left incomplete. The last chapter is always 
the best. There the wicked woman comes 
to grief — according to her due — and so — / 

” A heavy sigh that is almost a sob 

chokes her. 

“ Well ! I thought if I came down to 
some obscure little village — some place 
well hidden away from the big, terrible 


90 


HER LAST THRO IF. 


world — I should find safety in it for me and 
my secret. England, I told myself, must 
be full of such places. Sweet country 
villages, where such lives as mine are never 
even heard of— where I should have no 
fear of meeting any one who had ever 
known me before. I craved above all 
things, rest and security. I thought I might 
even do some good amongst the poor of 
my ideal village — something that might be 

regarded by God as reparation ” 

She pauses, and two heavy tears roll 
down her cheeks. Yet she does not seem 
to be crying. She does not even seem con- 
scious of thpse two miserable betrayers of 
the supreme grief within her. She recovers 
herself almost immediately, and goes on in 
the dull monotone she has adopted — a note 
well suited to her woeful tale. 

It was a foolish hope,” says she, sigh- 
ing oh ! so sadly ! “ Where is rest to be 

found for such as I am ? Not in f/izs world ! 
I came, and what follows you know. For 
eight weeks I v/as divinely happy. Eight 


HER LAST THROW. 


91 


weeks’ happiness out of twenty-seven years 
of misery ! A small allowance, surely. But 
it is all I have ever had. No. In this 
world there is no hope for — some poor 
wretches ! ” 

Her head sinks upon her bosom, she 
covers her eyes with her hand. 

He has risen to his feet and has come 
closer to her — quite close now. 

There are other worlds,” says he 
hoarsely. “ Let us go in search of one 
together^ Janet.” 

She regards him strangely for a moment. 
Is he like all the others No — even if he 
means ///«/. He cannot be like them. He 
is giving up something — a great deal — all 
his life here — when he speaks of this foreign 
scheme. 

“ OJi, no,” says she gently. She shakes 
her head. I shall leave this place, of 
course, and go back to London. After all 
that is the one place where true isolation 
may be found.” 


92 


HER LAST THROW. 


“ You will live there alone^ with no friends 

to speak to you — to comfort you ” 

I have one friend,” says she, simply. 
“ She was a dresser at the — the theatre 
whe'e I — danced!"' It seems to give her 
positive physical agony to say this. “ She 
grew attached' to me when I was there, and 
when Lord Ilton died I asked her to come 
with me and be my housekeeper. She was 
faithful — I could trust her, and she was 
someone to whom I could speak — of — the 
cruel past. vShe accepted my proposal — 
she came with me — she has proved a friend 
indeed.” 

“ She can travel with us,” says Severn, 
slowly. “ When we are married and are 
going abroad, you can take her with you as 
your maid.” 

Married ! ” says she. She has turned 
very white. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Y ou would marry me after all ? 
after " 


HER LAST THROW. 


93 


“When first I saw you, I knew you 
were the only woman I should ever marry. 
I think so still. When can you be 
ready ” 

“Never — never!" says she. 

“Janet, what are you saying ? ” 

'' \ meafi ! Do you think ” — pas- 
sionately — “that you are the person 
who can be generous. Do you suppose 
that I — / — who love you, am going to be 
the one to spoil your life ! No ! don’t look 
at me like that ! I tell you if you knelt to me 
for a thousand years I should still refuse to 
link my wretched life with yours.” 

She means it. All at once it has come 
to her— the terrible truth — that she cannot 
marry this man — that she dare not destro y 
his life — the life most precious to her. She 
has thought she could do it — she has 
defied Sir George, and told herself, whilst 
looking at him, that she could carry through 
her cruel determination to make his brother 

her own. But now the very power of 

her love constrains her. She jnust let him 


94 IJER last throw. 

go free, and endure to the end the utter 
loneliness that Fate has allotted as her por- 
tion. There is no hope — no escape. 

What has George been saying to you ? ” 
asks he. 

“ I told you. He was particularly careful. 
He did not influence me in any way. Do 
you think I cannot judge for myself where 
you are concerned ? ” 

‘‘ I do not ask you to stay here,” says he 
in a low voice. “ Not even in this country. 
There are other lands where everything 
will be unknown.” 

She breaks suddenly into a low fierce 
liugh. Unknown! What land can they go 
to where he will not know ? It is a wild 
laugh that shakes her slender frame. 

‘‘ You can laugh,” said he, too wretched 
himself to mark the wretchedness of her 
mirth. 

“ Why not ? Why not ? ” cries she, vehe- 
mently. ‘‘ Shall I not have no crying to do 
by-and-bye, think you ? Do not grudge 
me my laughter now. My laughter ! ” 


HEk LAST THROW. 


There is now such misery in her tone that 
it rouses him from his own abstraction, 
and compels him to hear it. 

What do you mean ? ” says he, quickly. 
“ Nothing- — nothing — nothing ! ” She 
puts up her hands to her head. There, 
go ! leave me !” cries she violently. It is 
all over — all at an end ! ” 

“ Not if you love me.” 

Who could believe in my love ” ex- 
claims she. ^Mf now you believe, do you 
think the time would not come when doubt 
would creep in — when you would say, ‘ she 
pretended to me, as shepretended toothers.’ 
No,” lapsing into a sullen mood, I tell 
you go ! Avhilst there is yet time.” 

There is no time when I shall leave you,” 
says he, “unless, indeed, you drive me 
from you.” 

That time has come, then,” says she, 
looking like death. 

‘Mf you send me away now I shall return 
again.” 


g6 HER LAST THROW. 

I think not — I hope not. When we 
part to-day, it will be finally ; it is our last 
hour, Pasco. In the future do not dwell re- 
morsefully upon that .... Always 
remember it was a worthless woman who 
arranged our parting. After to-day we 
shall never meet again — Never ! ” 

“We shall meet again in a year,” says 
he, with a settled determination in histone. 

“ No, no ! -I refuse to listen to that. To- 
day will see my own happy little hour at an 
end. Remember always that it was my 
doing,” says she, feverishly. “ I should 
like you to remember that. Even though 
I am a most worthless woman, I did that 
one good deed. It should count for me. 
Go — go now !” 

“To return ! ” says he, doggedly. In 
the meantime, if ever you should want me 
— I shall leave you an address ... I shall 
send it to you by post. It will find me 
always. It will be sent on to me.” 

“ I shall not want you ! ” says she, her 


HER LAST THRO IV. 


97 


head bent, her hands tipfhtly folded on hev 
knees. 

That is the first time you have eve- 
said what was not true to me,” says he- 
‘‘ Is it not so ? ” 

Perhaps. But how about others ? ” 
She lifts haggard, defiant eyes to his. Do 
you think I have not known /low to lie ? 
There! There! There! ’ wearily, ‘'I am 
not worth so great a coil.” Some phrases 
belonging to her old life at the theatre still 
cling to her. 

“In a year,” says he, “ I shall return. 
That time I will give you to make up your 
mind as to whether you will link your 
fate with mine, or — But there is no alter- 
native. I will not suggest one. You love 
me and I love you. Our love is strong 
enough to blot out all the past. In the 
meantime — ” for the first time he ap- 
proaches her and takes her hand — “ you 
will not forget me.” 

I pray God that in that time you will 
forget ;/vr,” returns she. 


98 


HER LAST THROW. 


“ Pray for something else. You will i.ot 
get the desired answer to that. Pray for 
something possible. I shall go abroad next 
week ; we shall be better apart for a little 
while until you have time given you in 
which to arrange your thoughts. This is 
June. The 2 ist of June. Some day like 
this next year you shall hear from me. I 
shall send you a sign to say I am coming.” 

A sign ! ” 

“Yes. It sounds rather second class, 
doesn’t it ? ” says he with a most mournful 
attempt at a smile. What Colin would 
say to his Phyllis. But- I’ll leave it so ! 
And the sign shall be pansies, such as 
these,” touching the bunch of drooping 
purple things at her throat. “ They shall 
be a sign from me to you that I am com- 
ing.” 

“ Ah,” says she sharply. “ They are 
for deathV 

No ! For thoughts.” 

For death. I’ve always heard. These 
purple blossoms are made to lie on graves. 


HER LAST THROW. 


99 


You have chosen a proper symbol. Death ! 
It IS the one thing left me to hope for ! ” 

“ Don’t talk like that,” says he roughly. 
“ We will change the sign then.” 

“ No,” hastily, no, let it be so. I like 
it. It is your own choice. I like it ! And 
after all, what does it matter ? I shall not 
get those pansies ! ” 

Y ou think I shall forget 1 ” 

‘‘ I hope you will forget.” 

But you do not think it, I see.” There 
is a touch of triumph in his tone. After 
all, you understand me,” says he. 

She is deadly pale. 

Y ou said you were going,” says she, 
looking at him. She is evidently trying to 
command herself. She is so white that he 
fears she is going to faint. 

“ Yes, I am going.” He takes her in his 
arms and holds her close against his 
breast. 

Good-bye, my soul,’* says he. 

She hardly returns the embrace, and 


lOO 


HER LAST THRO IV. 


even struggles a little as if to release her- 
self. He lets her go. 

“ Janet ! Remember ! ” says he in a hoarse 
whisper. She makes a little vague gesture 
that he cannot understand^, and turns aside. 
He moves towards the door. Suddenly a 
faint sound reaches him. He turns. 

She is standing where he had left her, 
holding out her arms to him. 

Oh, Pasco ! Oh, darling ! Oh ! 
one moment.” 

Could there be .a worse moment than 
that ? He asks himself that question when 
she has at last pushed him from her, and 
he finds himself walking homewards through 
the soft, evening air, with happiness lying a 
dead thing behind him. 


BER LAST THROW, 


101 


CHAPTER IX. 

They who tell me that men grow hard-hearted as 
they grow older, have a very limited view of this 
world of ours.” 

She stands still where he has left her, lis- 
tening — listening always to the steps that 
are going from her. After a while, as if 
unable to command her strength, she sinks 
into the chair behind her and presses her 
handkerchief to her lips. Her teeth meet 
on it, but she is unconscious of everything 
save those departing footsteps. 

Now, now they have gone down the stairs, 
and now he is crossing the hall. And now — 
he is at the hall door. The servant is 
opening it. There is yet time to call him 
back, t ) fling herself into his kind arms, and 
— ruin his life. 

Oh ! no ! ” She had half risen with a 
passionate longing in her eyes — but now — 


102 


HER LAST IHROW. 


the passion dies away into the saddest, * 
greyest ashes, and she staggers backwards, 
a mere wreck upon the cruel ocean of life. 

At this moment the hall door closes- 
The sharp click of the lock is known to her. 
Even still she can hear his step crunching 
on the gravel path. But now — now it is 
gone ; she leans forward as if to compel her 
ears to the service required of them, but no 
use. He is gone — goncior ever For ever! 
For ever I 

She throws her hands above her head ; 
but not the smallest sound escapes her. 
Why was she born ? Had she asked to be 
brought into a world that would treat her 
like this ? All through her horrible lament, 
however, there runs a voice that renders it 
even more intolerable. ‘‘My own fault! 
My own fault!” cries this voice, that is 
unappeasable — incessant ! 

She cannot bear it ! Rising, she flings her- 
self bodily upon a sofa, and buries her head 
in the cushions. Oh i that thus easily she 
could bury herself out of sight. If — if she had 


HER LAST THROW. 103 

known — if She grows confused — a pain 

even keener than this mental one has now 
caught her. She presses her hand to her 
heart. Oh ! the agony ! . . . . And 

now the two hands clutch at the seat of 
pain — and now 

It is quite an hour later when the house- 
keeper enters the room. A gaunt woman 
almost forbidding in appearance, with a face 
marked by small-pox and a stern, cold 
mouth. Her eyes, however, as they light 
on that stricken form lying so motionless 
upon the sofa, seem to alter suddenly. 
They grow eager — frightened -—trans- 
figured, for love lies in them. Love that 
beautifies all things. She rushes forward. 
“Janet! Janet!” cries she in a low tone, 
yet one replete with passionate tenderness. 
It seems a strange address from a woman 
clothed in the garb of servitude as she is 
to the slender, exquisitely formed woman 
lying on the sofa. But the days had been 
when the two were equal, and in the agony 
of the moment the woman had forgotten 


104 


HER LAST THRO IV. 


the gulf that since had spread itself between 
them. A gulf not created by that poor 
creature lying there unconscious. 

The housekeeper, lifting her in her 
strong arms, turns her face to the light. 
She is still breathing. She is alive still. 
Alive, thank God for that above all things ! 
After a minute or two Mrs. Barrington stirs 
painfully and opens her eyes. Her lips are 
blue. 

Y ou must be mad to lie like that,” says 
the woman, the relief following on seeing 
the eyes open acting on the fear and grief 
going before rendering her now even more 
stern than usual. Here ! sit up.” She 
lifts Mrs. Barrington in a sitting position, 
pressing down the pillows behind her b;ick. 
“ What was it ? ” asks she. “ The same 
old pain ? The heart again ? ” 

“ Ah — the heart ! ” says Mrs. Barrington 
in a strange tone that puzzles the other. 

Well — there is more ! ” says she in her 
grim way. What makes you speak like 


HER LAST THROW. 


*05 

that ? And there’s a queer look about you 
too. ~ He was here, wasn’t he ” 

“ Yes.” 

Ah ! you’ve been having it out with 
him — what ? ” 

All through the roughness of her manner 
an extreme and almost vehement aftection 
betrays itself. 

Mrs. Barrington smiles at her — a wan 
smile that is affirmative. 

“He knows then ? He has been told ? ” 

Mrs. Barrington smiles again. Oh ! what 
a smile. 

“ Damn the one that told him then!” 
says the woman with a strange ferocity. 
Her eyes gleam, she uprears her gaunt 
figure, and breathes heavily. She turns to 
her mistress as though to say something 
further, and then — grows quite calm. 

That pale, almost dying face ! Is she to 
be the one to make it paler } If she ate 
her heart out would it do any good A 
sense of despair paralyzes the woman. She 
subdues her anger by an heroic effort, and 


HER LAST THROW. 


io6 

whilst giving way to murderous thoughts 
of Pasco, who, she believes, has proved 
unfaithful, still manages to regard Janet 
with the old, quiet, stern glance. 

Y ou know you have been warned to 
avoid excitement of all kinds. Is any man 
worth dying for ? Is the grave better than 
this life ? ’* 

“ Have you a doubt ? ” says Mrs. Bar- 
rington, speaking in a faint whisper, and 
with a touch of something in her voice that 
might almost be termed amusement — a 
shadow of it. 

A great many ! ” says the woman sharp- 
ly. Life is life ! There is nothing like 
it. Don’t you want to know what is going 
on ? What he is going to do for example ! 
Hah!” as she sees a change cross Mrs. 
Barrington’s face. “ I told you so 1 Nobody 
ever wants to be nobody ! Come now, 
rouse yourself ; sit up a bit. There are 
other things in the world besides that man, 
He is, of course, like all the rest — fair- 
weather friends ! Why should you pin youi 


HER LAST THRO IF. 107 

faith to any one of them all ? They 
all laugh and love and ride away, and 
forget 

Ah ! Ah ! Forget. He will forget ! ” 
Janet has broken into a terrible cry, and 
has fallen back on her cushions. 

“ There, there ! ” says the housekeeper. 
‘‘It was only a word, darling. A word 
well meant. And if you forget. Now. 
There, there! Come,” sternly, “be sensi- 
ble! If you persist in giving way to emo- 
tion of this kind, some day it will carry you 
off.” 

“ Carry me off ! ” she has broken into an 
hysterical laugh. “ Why, you would make 
him and death one. That is what he 
wanted to do — to carry me off.” 

“ Y es, yes^' excitedly, sitting up again, 
but always with her hand pressed to her 
side, and with her words coming in little 
gasps. “You thought otherwise, didn’t 
you } But he is true — true as steel ! ” 


ro8 HER LAST THROW. 

‘‘He asked you to go with him ? " says 
the woman in a dazed sort of way. 

“ Y es, and you too. Come,” laughing 
wildly, “ there was generosity for you ! Not 
only me, the disgraced one, the one his 
own brother thinks only worthy to be 
trodden under foot, and — and — with justice! 
— but he was so careful of me, that when I 
said I could not leave you, he arranged 
that you should come away with us and sail 
to lands unknown.” 

She falls back exhausted, still laughing 
miserably. 

The woman, taking a bottle from her 
pocket, looks quickly round her, and seeing 
a tiny colored glass upon one of the tables, 
pours a few drops from the bottle into it 
and gives it to her mistress. Janet swal- 
lows it and grows by degrees calmer. 

“ Now, not another word,” says the 
woman seeing her again about to speak. 

“ Acknowledge, then, you wronged him. 
He asked — he implored me to marry him 
and go abroad with him.” 


HER Last thro tv . 109 

“Well, why don’t you go?” says the 
woman. 

“ Oh, no ! ” she shakes her head. The 
faint color that her cheeks had regained 
now quits them again. The housekeeper 
grows alarmed. “ would mean misery 
for me, not happiness.” Her voice has 
become almost inarticulate. 

“ Come upstairs to your bed,” says the 
housekeeper quickly. “ Come, you can 
think it all out as well there as here, and 
rest is what you want.” 

Rest !" says Mrs. Barrington, slowly. 

“ Ristr 

She says nothing more. The house- 
keeper, passing her arms under her, lifts her 
to her feet, and almost carries her on her 
short journey upstairs. 


HER. LAST THROW, 


lio 


CHAPTER X. 

“ And to his eye 

There was but one beloved face on earth, 
And that was shining on him.” 

“So he has gone abroad,” says Fay, rais- 
ing tearful eyes to Ernest Severn’s face. 

Poor, poor fellow. He seemed broken- 
hearted. Oh, it was iiard, wasn’t it ? ” 

Well, I don’t know,” says Ernest, rivet- 
ting his eyes upon the ground (they are in 
the garden) and feeling himself a monster. 

“ You Aoxitknow !" with awful empha- 
sis. I suppose^ with severity as awful as 
the emphasis, “ you know this much, at all 
events— that beloved her and that she 
loved him.” 

“ Y es — of course — but ” 

But why, what more do you want?” 
indignantly. “ I think 1 never heard of so 


HER LAST THRO]^. ill 

sad a case. And it appears she behaved 
splendidly ! Actually refused to marry him ! 
George has been in such a way ever since. 
I believe it was all his fault. But,” spite- 
fully, he is just like you. I daresay he 
doesn’t believe in love either, though I’m 
sure Nettie is a perfect model of a wife.” 

Who says I don’t believe in love ? ” 
demands he hotly. 

I do,” boldly. 

“ Simply because I think Pasco is well 
off a marriage with a woman who — 
who ” 

She was lovely,” says Miss Ashton, 
inconsequently. 

I daresay.” 

“ I heard you say so yourself, over and 
over again.” 

‘‘ Very likely. But, as I suppose you 
have heard before, this loveliness •” 

“ I haven’t heard anything,” says she, 
pettishly tilting up a charming little 
shoulder against him. “ She was lovely. 


112 


HER LAST THROW. 


and she was sweet ! That to me is every- 
thing, so tfieret' 

“ Y ou carry out my view exactly,’’ says 
he, unmoved. Permit me to finish my 
sentence. I suppose you have heard before 
this that some sweets are not good for us ? ” 
You must be a sweet,” says she im^ 
pertinently. Though,” with an irrepressi- 
ble laugh, “ one wouldn’t think it, because 
you certainly aren’t good for me^ 

“ I’m good to you for all th?t,” says he 
undaunted. “ I’m trying to show you the 
right path, only you won’t be led by me. 
All women are unreasonable.” 

According to all men',' quickly, casting 
at him a disdainful glance from under her 
heavily fringed lids. That is one of the 
old foolish beliefs to which people still cling 
because their grandfathers so clung before 
them. They have no other reason. Once 
in the dark ages, some sour old bachelor 
collected together all the vices of men, and 
wrote them down, and then attributed them 
to women. And now his calumnies have 


HER LAST THROW. H3 

become settled beliefs with all the mas- 
culine world. But we know better. All 
women are unreasonable you say. But,” 
with withering scorn, what are all men, I 
wonder ? ” 

% 

“Fools!” says Captain Severn, with 
cheerful humility. 

She glances at him doubtfully a moment, 
a little taken aback by this ready submis- 
sion, perhaps, and then says relentlessly : 

“ So they are I ” 

After this, as might rationally be ex- 
pected, there is silence for a minute or 
two. 

“ I must say,” says he, in a distinctly 
offended tone, “ you are a very severe 
critic.” 

“ I only indorse your own sentiments,” 
returns she icily. 

“ There is one sentiment, however, you 
refuse to credit me with. You say I don’t 
believe in love.” 

I said,” prevaricating mildly, “ that I 
supposed Sir George didn’t.” 


HER LAST THROW. 


1 14 

“ You said / didn’t,” persistently. 

Oh ! Did I ? Well — you ? ” 

Fayl' says he suddenly — sharply. He 
catches her hand, but she breaks herself 
resolutely from him, and^ turns to face him 
with gleaming eyes. 

“ Well ? ” says she defiantly. 

“You know what I mean,” says the 
young man defiantly in turn. 

Know what ? ” Her very lips are white, 
and her low broad forehead lined with an 
ominous frown. “ You give me credit for 
more intelligence than I possess. I know 
nothing, nothing ! ” 

‘‘Ah! because you won't know,” says 
he. 

There is silence for a moment or two, 
and then 

“ I hope I don't know,” says she slowly. 
“ If I do, how am I to regard you again — 
as an honorable man t ” 

“ Fay, be reasonable,” says he, forget- 
ting the late argument. A little derisive 
laugh breaks from her. 


HER LAST THRO IV. 


”5 


Reasonable ! you forget. I am a 
women —by your own showing ! I could not 
be that." 

Listen to me," says he. ‘‘ I want to 
tell you a story." 

“ I hate stories," returns she restlessly. 

“ Let me put a case before you then ? ” 
“ Well — make it short," says she. 

If— supposing — there should be two 
people, both young— who, in an absurd 

moment, thought that they — that is ” 

“ It is a rather involved case, isn’t it ?" 
asks she, glancing up at him mischievously ; 
that light attack of nervousness that was 
more than half anger, that troubled her a 
while ago, has now entirely disappeared. 
The anger certainly is all gone, and if any 
of the nervousness still remains, it is care- 
fully hidden away. 

No. No. It is very simple. But I 
feel you are not listening — not caringl' 

“ Well. I w’ill listen now.” 

“ Oh, no, you have spoiled it," says he 
impatiently. “ I could^tcgo on now. Only 


HER LAST THRCW. 


n6 

this remains. I shall never marry Jes- 
sica.” 

She turns to him quickly, passionately, 
and then controls herself. 

“You should tell that to her, not to 
another,” says she coldly. “ If you must 
tell it at all. But — your promise } ” 

“ Given when I was a mere boy ! Does 
that hold a man for all his life ? And 
besides, it would be different if she cared, 
but she does not. At least not for me!' 

Miss Ashton lifts her dark eyes, and re- 
gards him curiously for a moment. 

“ There is such a thing as' jealousy,” 
says she. 

“ If you imagine I am jealous, of Wyld- 
ing, you don’t know me,” retorts he. “ Oh, 
if I could only believe that she honestly 
cared for him, what a relief it would be. 
But — could she care ? ” 

“ You wrong her,” says Fay, in a low 
tone. “ She has a heart in her body some- 
where. I am sure of that. I am 7iGt sure, 
however, that you do not possess it.” 


HER LAST THROW. 


117 


“ And yet you have watched her day by 
day. Fay, let me speak to you openly. 
Already you know I don’t care for her. 
You must know that she is equally indiffer- 
ent to me. To her cousin, Gilbert Wyld- 
ing, she has given all the love of which 
she is capable.” 

‘‘ Ah ! who can be sure of that t *’ says 
she, arguing the point even against her 
better judgment. Even to her, of late — 
and she is a newcomer to the county — it 
has seemed that Jessica Wilcott has given 
kinder words and smiles to W ylding than to 
any other man of her acquaintance — than 
even to the man she has promised to marry. 
But then might not all this be the result of 
pique ? Has Ernest been a devoted lover ? 
She lifts her eyes to Severn’s. 

Perhaps it is your fault,” says she. 

I daresay I am always in fault so far 
as you think,” returns he bitterly. “You 
refuse to give me a chance. And yet you 
miist see for yourself how things are 
going.” 


Il8 HER LAST THROW. 

• “ If,” says Fay, in a little troubled tone, 
her pretty face growing sad and distressed, 
‘‘ if she is going to prove false to you, I — 
you know how sorry I shall feel for you.” 

‘‘ False ! ” Good heavens ! I hope she 
will prove false ! ” cries he. “ Oh ! if once 
I could feel free again ; free — to tell — the 
one I really love, how I love her ! ” 

His eyes meet hers. He makes a quick 
irrepressible movement in her direction. In 
vain to deny him. He has his arms round 
her, and, after one faint effort at repulsion, 
she gives way, and her small, pretty head 
sinks upon his shoulder. 

“It is wrong — wrongl^ sobs she vehe- 
mently. 

“ Oh, no ! Nothing is wrong if you love 
me as I love you. You do love me. Fay.” 

‘‘Ah, you know it,” says she. “You 
have known it for ever so long. That is 
why I hate you.” 

“ Well, you know that I love you too,’’ 
says he, pressing his cheek to hers, and too 
much agitated to take notice of the as- 


HER LAST THROW. 


1 19 

tonishing- nature of her answer to his simple 
question. My darling ! Don’t be so un- 
happy. It will all come right, and 
she ” 

Oh, no. No ; it is wicked, dishonor- 
able, horrible. Perhaps she loves you in 
spite of all we know. She may ” — anxious- 
ly — in fact,” looking at him with loving 
eyes, I’m sure she must! ” 

Nonsense, sweetheart. That is a mere 
phantasy of your brain. We are heartily 
sick of each other, she and I. I have 
known that for a long time. And be- 
sides ” 

Well, it is no use speaking to me,” says 
she, sighing heavily. “ I can only feci one 
thing — that you have given your word to 
her, and that you love me.’* 

“That is two things,” says he. But 
what if she doesn’t want my word ? ” 

“ Ah ! If she would say so ! ” 

“ I would to heaven Wylding would 
make her say it,” says he miserably. Not 
that it makes much difference about him* 


X20 


HER LAST THROW. 


Now that I know you care for me, my own 
little, sweet, precious darling, I shall go up 
to The Park to-morrow, and tell Jessica 
that I have changed my mind about — many 
things.” 

“ Don’t do that,” says she quickly. She 
releases herself from his loving arms and 
stands back from him. “ I couldn’t bear 
you to do that. It would be dishonorable, 
and I should always feel that it was I who 
had driven you to do what — what the 
world would consider ” 

“ I don’t think of the world,” says he. 
“ You are my world. There is nothing 
beyond.” 

“ Then you do think of the world,” says 
she, with a quick flash of wit, and a cen- 
sorious one, too, for / should condemn a 
breach of faith in anyone.” 

“ But how if you found this to be no 
breach ? ” 

“ Ah ! But how shall I find that ? ” 

‘‘ Fay ! Trust me ! Believe in me ! ” cries 
he, passionately, drawing her to him, and 


HER LAST THROW. 121 

encircling her little fragile form in his 
strong arms. There is no dishonor any- 
where, neither with me nor Jessica. She is 
as free from blame as I am. We were both 
hurried into an engagement that had no 
hold upon our hearts. Bat now — noiv ! 
My beloved — my darling!” pressing her 
head down against his breast, you know 
how it is with me. I love you, Fay ; if I 
talked to you for ever I could say nothing 
stronger than that.” 

^^And I — I love you too!” says she, 
breaking into bitter tears, but it is all use- 
less*! All! If she — of her own will — does 
not release you from your engagement to 
her, I cannot listen to you.” 

“ Oh, Fay ! — be merciful ! If I speak to 
her ” 

“ No. It would not be the same thing. 
It would not be right ! If she were to tell 
you she didn’t want to marry you, that 
would be different. I should ” — naively — 
be happy, then ! But otherwise ” 


122 


HER LAST THRO IV. 


“You raise a barrier between us that will 
never be razed,” says Severn, desperately. 
“ She is governed so far by her mother that 
she would hardly dare to break with me.” 
He speaks sincerely, but in this he wrongs 
Jessica. “ If you decide upon refusing me 
when / have ended this loveless engage- 
ment that now ties me — why, I shall not 
end it. As well be miserable one way as 
the other.” 

She is silent. 

‘‘Speak, Fay!” 

“ You proposed to her of your own free 
will — she has not spoken to you any word 
that would betray her desire to break her 
engagement with you. I think you should 
keep to it,” says she. 

It Is strange to see so much strength — 
so much determination in so small a crea- 
ture. 

“It shall be as you will,” says Severn, 
in a low voice. 

He turns away, and then comes back 
again. 


HER LAST THROW. 


123 


Nevertheless, I shall put an end to 
this hated bond to-morrow,” says he, dog- 
gedly, and with sudden angry change of 
purpose. 

She makes no reply. She is standing 
quite quiet, her little figure in its pretty 
white frock bowed. Her face — two tears 
run swiftly down her cheeks. 

Oh darling!” cries he, in a suffocated 
tone. 

He makes a step towards her; but she, 
throwing out both her hands to check him, 
runs swiftly up the balcony steps leading 
into the drawing-room, and, like a small 
whirlwind, disappears round the corner of 
the first window. 


124 


HER LAST ’JHKO,r, 


CHAPTER XI. 

“ All nature is but Art, unknown to thee ; 

All chance, direction, which thou canst not see ; 

All discord, harmony not understood ; 

All partial evil, universal good.” 

With a heavy heart he turns, and walks 
homewards to fasco’s home, that has now 
no master. He had seemed cold when 
speaking to Fay about his brother’s unhap- 
piness, about the woman who had caused 
it. But in truth his coldness had been 
nothing to his anger against her. To him 
there was but one possible view of the case, 
and that was that she had deliberately 
ruined his life — had come down there to 
prey upon society, and secure for the 
establishment of her lost respectability the 
first eligible man that offered. Pasco had 
been that man. He would have laughed 


HER LAST THROW. 


125 


aloud if anyone had told him now — what- 
ever he miMit have believed before — that 

o 

Mrs. Barrington — or whatever her name 
was — had ever loved his brother ... To 
him the whole affair was a preconcerted 
scheme on her part, in which any honest 
sentiment had no portion whatsoever. 

He regarded his brother well out of it, 
and attributed the woman’s refusal to marry 
him to the fact that, her story being known 
here, the respectability she craved would 
have been impossible. Nobody would have 
called, his family would decline to receive 
her. She had thrown up the game at the 
last moment to the everlasting good of 
Pasco — if Pasco could only have been 
brought to see it. But he had not seen it, 
and had left his home yesterday, bound no 
one knew where, with a heart that seemed 
broken, and an openly expressed feeling of 
resentment towards all his family. 

He had refused indeed to see Sir George, 
who up to the last moment had made 
vigorous efforts to get at him, and explain 


126 


HER LAST 7 I/ROW. 


what really happened, and so break down 
this terrible barrier that the younger bro- 
ther had raised between them. 

Pasco was obdurate, and left home with 
a dull farewell to Ernest, and a decided in- 
tention of leaving no address behind him. 

No wonder Ernest, who regarded Pasco 
as his dearest possession — once a little, 
petulant, charming face was out of the 
question — felt bitter against Janet Barring- 
ton. 

She was still at The Priory, but was 
leaving to-morrow. To go where no one 
knew, beyond the fact that she was bound 
for London first. After that, according to 
Ernest’s belief, for Monte Carlo, or some 
other foreign place where adventuresses 
live and thrive — or for the Even- 

tually it would be the latter. 

His mood is a terribly bitter one now, as 
he walks along through the warm wood- 
lands ; his brother’s griefs have been as his 
own, but now a yet more intimate one 
claims hlfv. Fay's face as last he saw it, 


HER LAS7' THROW. 


127 


with those two large melancholy tears steal- 
ing down the woe-begone little cheeks_, has 
rendered him almost distracted. * They 
had told their own tale. She loved him. 
He loved her with all his heart and soul — 
nothing stood between them but a hateful 
engagemerrt in which neither of the sup- 
posed interested parties had sunk any 

heart-capital whatsoever — and yet 

Well, if she would not have him, he 
would follow Pasco’s example, and cut this 
life altogether. Tuesday next his leave 
would be up, and he must rejoin his regi- 
ment, but he could not live out a detestable 
existence in a country that contained the 
being he loved, but who, of her own accord, 
had determined to render herstlf inacces- 
sible. Of Jessica he thought little beyond 
this, that he would certainly end the farce 
existing between her and him to-morrow. 
The very thought of her had grown hate- 
ful. And she would probably be glad of 
her release. 


125 nER LAST THROW. 

He— Ernest — had nothing to offer 
beyond an old name, and, now-a-days, an 
heiress such as Jessica could always be sure 
of securing that — and it would leave her 
free to accept the evident admiration of her 
cousin. Of course, if he— Ernest — had 
been a man of property, a desirable parti 
of that sort, it would be impossible now to 
draw back, but as it is 

Entering the library he finds a letter 
awaiting him. Opening it with languid 
interest, he finds it contains a whole world 
of excitement. His uncle, an old man liv- 
ing in Devonshire, is dead, and has left him 
all his property. A clear three thousand 
a year ! 

Severn falls into a chair, and having re- 
read the letter, gives himself up to despair. 
With this — with her — what life would have 
meant !. And now ! Now ic is impossible 
that he should even have the small comfort 
of breaking off his engagement with the 
other. 


HER LAST THROW. 


129 


It is growing towards evening, and Pay, 
Avho had spent a good deal of her afternoon 
inher own room and in tears, has crept 
down to the small drawing-room, knowing 
that there solitude at lea^t will be found. 
The children are all spending the day at a 
distant place, and Nettie has gone visiting. 
Not being the latter’s day at Home, her 
small sister feels sure of thinking out her 
sad thoughts undisturbed. 

Vain hope ! 

The door is thrown open and Miss Wil- 
cott is ushered in by one of the servants. 
Fay, with a little wild thought of hiding her 
tell-tale eyes, rises hurriedly to greet her 
visitor, keeping her back well to the light. 

“ Nettie is not in,” says she, as cordially 
as nature will permit. But perhaps I may 
be her substitute for this one day.” 

I’m rather glad she is from home,” says 
Miss Wilcott coolly. It is you I want to 
see. May I take off these laces ? They 
are so warm, and I daresay I shall be here 
for some time.” 


130 


HER LAST 77/ROfV. 


“ Let me take them off,” says Fay, her 
heart sinking within her. This girl, of all 
others ! How long is she going to stay ^ 
Nevertheless, she busies herself with the 
undoing of the laces. 

“ Y ou are not feeling well, are you ? ” says 
Miss Wilcott, looking at her sharply. 

Oh, yes, quite well, thank you. Did 
you walk ? ” 

A pause, and then : 

‘‘Yes, such a lovely day. If you are 
quite well, at all events you have been 
crying.” 

“ Do you never cry ? ” says Fay, slowly, 
deliberately, and with just a suspicion of 
Insolence. 

“Never,” says Miss Wilcott. “ I’m not 
a foolish person as a rule. This sounds a 
little rude, because you evidently have 
been crying, but in reality it is not so. V ery 
sensible people have been known to give 
way to folly occasionally. But crying is 
not in my line* If you want a thing, take 
it — don’t sit crying for it. That is sensible 


HER LAST THROW. 


13 * 

advice, and economical too. You save 
your eyes.” 

It sounds a little lawless,” says Fay, 
laughing in a rather forced fashion. May 
I ask what you have been appropriating 
lately ? ” 

My cousin, Gilbert Wylding,” returns 
Miss Wilcott coolly. “ I finally made up 
my mind to marry him this morning.” 

There is a long pause. Fay has turned 
very pale. She would have spoken, but 
is afraid to trust her voice. Presently, how- 
ever, she gains once more control over 
herself. 

Surely I heard the truth when I w'as 
told yoii were engaged to Captain Se- 
vern ? ” 

The whole truth and nothing but the 
truth,” with a shrug of her handsome 
shoulders. 

And now, how are you going to ? 

I don’t understand you,” says Fay. 

A great many people have said that to 
me off and on,” says Miss Wilcott care- 


132 


HER LAST TILROIV. 


lessly. She smiles curiously — a little com- 
placently, and glances at Fay out of her 
dark almond-shaped eyes. Never had she 
seemed so Jewish in the others opinion. 
Dark, handsome, a little crafty, detestabUs 
decides Fay, who, though full of a confused 
joy, that as yet had hardly grown definite, 
still feels the indignity shown to her lover. 
To calmly throw him over like that with- 
out a word or thought ! 

And Ernest — you have not considered 
him ? ” she says warmly. 

The other looks at her very straight this 
time. 

“ Well, I never thought you a hypocrite,’’ 
says she slowly. 

The blood rushes into Fay’s pale cheeks. 
She grows visibly unnerved, whereupon 
Miss Wilcott gives way to that peculiar low 
laugh of hers. 

“ Oh, I think I have considered him,” 
she says, with a touch of amusement that is 
not wholly free of a sneer. ‘‘ Was I ever 
so considerate to him before, I wonder I 


HER LAST THROW. 


133 


don’t think he will die of chagrin or grief 
over my loss. I really think, on the con- 
trary, that he will feel inclined to kill the 

fatted calf. He will be now free to *’ 

She pauses, her eyes still fixed on Fay. 

Well ? ” says the latter, with a rather 
ominous compression of her lips. 

“To seek consolation elsewhere. What 
did you think I was going to say } ” laugh-, 
ing again. 

“Your thoughts are beyond nie,” says 
Fay, rather haughtily. 

“ Yes ? Well, yours are not beyond 7ne. 
Am I rude again? You thought I was 
going to say that he could now seek conso- 
lation {romyou." 

Fay rises to her feet, her dark eyes 
flashing, her small, shapely head well 
thrown back. She opens her lips as if to 
speak, but Jessica, by an imperious gesture, 
stops her. 

There — there. What is it all about ? ” 
says she contemptuously. “ Why should 
you be angry because I tell you Ernest 


134 HER LAST THROW. 

adores you ? It is I who should be angry 
with you, but,” with a little smile, “ I’m 
not. Did you think I was bluid all these 
weeks ? That I could not see for myself 
how matters were going ? Will you be 
angry again if I say I rejoiced when I saw 
you had attracted him ? Ernest in love 
might be bearable (I don’t know), but 
flrnest not in love is distinctly z/;/bearable ! 
(That I know.) Come,” rising, I wish 
you joy — though that is more than you 
wished me. 

“You go very far,” says Fay, who is 
almost too angry to speak.' 

“ One can only go to a certain limit. I 
expect I have gone to mine,” says Miss 
Wilcott. “ Good-bye.” 

She extended her hand, in which Fay 
places hers, sorely against her will. 

“ You regard me as an enemy plainly,” 
says Miss Wilcott, always looking a little 
amused. “ Whereas, in reality, I am the 
best friend you have ever had. At all 
events, I have done you the best turn.” 


HER LAST THROW. 


I3S 

This is so true that Fay feels her resent- 
ment fall an inch or two. 

“ As for the exploded compact between 
me and Ernest, that was not our doing. It 
was a make-up of mamma’s and the old 
man, Sir George, who is dead. I always 
knew it would come to nothing. It has, 
however, come to this, which is something ! 
But I shall be sorry if it creates me a foe — 
in you !” 

She is still holding Fay’s hand and is still 
looking amused. 

‘Mt may interest you to know that 
Ernest never made me a lover-like speech 
in his life. There, you surely should be 
grateful for thatr 

Perhaps Fay in her heart is grateful. At 
all events, when Miss Wilcott presses her 
hand acfain in a final adieu she returns the 
pressure, and even goes so far as to see her 
to the door and watch her across the hall. 
Then she closes the door again, and, sink- 
ing into a chair, lets her face fall forward 
into her hands. 


136 


HER LAST THROW. 


Is it true ? Is it true ? 

For a long- time she sits like that ; think- 
ing-hoping. It seems too good to be real. 
Then she may really love him, and he may 
love her Does he know ? She starts to 
her feet as this question occurs to her, and 
after a second’s deliberation, runs out of the 
room, upstairs, and puts on her hat. It is 
the work of an instant to run downstairs 
again, and out of the hall door and across 
the avenue to the pleasaunce that will lead 
to the wood beyond. 

A vague longing to get to him — to tell 
him — is possessing her. From the Elms to 
where he lives is a rather long cry so late 
in the evening, but this idea has not oc- 
curred to her. Happily, however, when half- 
way through her self-imposed journey, 
she sees a tall grey-clad figure advancing 
towards her. 

To give her information as to who that 
grey-clad figure is would indeed be loss of 
time. She stops short, and lifting her tiny 


HER LAST THROW. 


»37 


hands to her mouth, calls to him across the 
distance that separates them. 

“Ernest! Hurry! Hurry! I have some- 
thing to tell you ! ” 

Perhaps he hears her, perhaps he doesn’t. 
Perhaps he too has seen her and has some- 
thing to tell her ; at all events, he quickens 
his pace, and soon is beside her. 

‘•Qh!” cries she, “I have such news. 
You wouldn’t guess it — ever ! What do 
you think f Jessica — has — but you shall 
guess ! ” 

“ Engaged herself to her cousin, Gilbert 
Wylding,” replies he, joy looking out from 
his eyes. 

“Ah! yow heard r' cries she, distinctly 
disappointed. “But/^^ze/f This morning 
you ” 

“ Oh, then I knew nothing. But half-an- 
hour ago I got a polite little letter from her, 
couched in the civilest terms, saying she 
hoped I would release her from her engage- 
ment to me, and winding up with the salient 
hint, that whether I did or not would make 


HER LAST THROW. 


J3« 

no difference, as she had made up her mind 
to wed her cousin. Who was I,” gaily, “ that 
I should interfere with her mind ? I suc- 
cumbed at once. Lowered my flag without 

making a single show of fight, and ” he 

catches Fay suddenly in his arms and 
presses her tenderly to his heart, here 
I am.” 

They both laugh a little, and perhaps 
with tears in their eyes. 

“ You are glad ? ” asks he presently. 

“ Oh ! you know it ! And you ? ” 

“ My darling, need you ask that ques- 
tion ? ” 

“ Well, you asked it to me,” says she 
aggrieved. And then — ‘‘Ernest! what a 
blessing it is that she should have fallen in 
love with her cousin.” 

“ I shall owe a debt of gratitude to Gil- 
bert Wylding all my life,” returns he, with 
fervor. 

“ Y es, I daresay he now ” 

“Is afraid to meet me” supplements 
Ernest with a laugh. “ Thinks he has 


HER LAST THROW. 


139 


done me out of my heart’s desire and so 
on. Oh ! ” pressing one of her dainty palms 
to his lips. ‘Uf he only knew ! ” 

“ I think he will — soon ! ” says Fay 
naively. 

“ How .? ” 

Because Jessica seems to know. She 
was very, very rude and — vulgar, I think,” 
with hesitation. “ And she said she had 
known for weeks that you were in love 
with me, and I’m afraid,” hanging her 
pretty head, that she knew too that I had 
been in love with you for just as long.” 

“ And were you ? ’ cries he with eager 
delight. “ Oh ! Fay, and what a life you 
led me! Well, you will have to make up 
for it now.” 

“ So will you,” says she. “ What right 
had you to be engaged to anybody until I 
came ? ” She is laughing, but suddenly she 
grows very grave. I am afraid Nettie 
and Sir George will be angry,” she says. 
“ You see we have no money, and Nettie 
says ” 


140 HER LAST THROW. 

“ Ah ! I had forgotten something else I 
had to tell you,” says he. ‘‘If want of 
means to marry on is Nettie’s only objec- 
tion, I can conquer that. To-day — an hour 
after I left you this morning — I received 
this,” he draws the letter from his pocket 
that contains the news of his uncle’s death, 
and gives it to. her to read. You see we 
shall not be actual paupers,” says he. 

“ It seems too much luck ! ” whispers she 
in an awed tone when she has read the 
letter. Her face has lost its color. 

‘‘ Too much luck for me certainly. Not 
half enough for you ! ” exclaims he, fondly 
pressing her pretty little face against his 


own. 


HER LAST THROW. 


14X 


CHAPTER XII. 

In many a stead Doom dwelleth, nor sleepeth da) 
nor night.” 

“ It is enough ; the end and the beginning 
Are one thing to thee, who art past the end.” 

The sun is streaming into a pleasant room 
in Harley Street. The blinds are all drawn 
down, but the windows are raised to let in 
any little passing breeze that may arise, 
and through them the sounds of distant 
street pianos, mingled with the cries of 
newsvendors, make their way. The world 
is a year older. It is once again the 21st 
of June ! 

Janet Barrington had risen that morning 
with a full remembrance of that dead, past, 
sweet day full upon her. All these sad 
twelve months indeed that now lie behind 
her she had thought of little else — and 
always without hope. She had forbidden 


142 


HER LAST THROIV. 


him to hope, she knew that, but yet— 
And if he had borne her in memory would 
he not have written her a vagrant line, now 
and again — a little sentence ever so short, 
but long enough to keep her starving soul 
from death. 

Where he was all this past year no one 
knew. Not even his own people. Abroad, 
was the one address they had to give any 
friends whose curiosity drove them to ask 
unwelcome questions. 

And now that first anniversary of the day 
that marked the crowning grief of her life 
has come round. To bring her what? 
Nothing ! As I have said, she felt herself 
beyond hope, and though some faint stir- 
ring as of expectation moved her when the 
morning’s post was brought her, still when 
she found that it contained no word from 
him she told herself she was not disap- 
pointed. She had known! He had learned 
through the wisdom that accrues from a full 
year that he had had a lucky escape 
from her. 


HER LAST THROW. I43 

She seldom rises before noon now. There 
is nothing the matter with her, she says 
persistently, nothing beyond the fact that 
she is always tired — tired. This tiring must 
be a rather dangerous illness in itself, 
because it has certainly reduced her to skin 
c*nd bone. Just now, as she walks feebly 
into this pleasant room with its shady 
blinds, she is only a mere shadow of her 
former self. A lovely self still, but terribly 
worn, and with eyes that look too large and 
dark for their pale setting. 

Her housekeeper, who is still with her, 
accompanies her, and arranges a comfort- 
able lounge for her amongst the pillows of 
the sofa. She has not changed. Always 
the same gaunt woman, with stern features, 
but earnest eyes, now grown terribly 
watchful. 

Sit down here — rest yourself,” says 
she, patting the cushions and addressing 
Janet, who is wandering from window to 
window in a slow, languid, idle fashion, 
pretending to admire the banks of flowers 


144 


HER LAST THRO IV. 


that fling their sweet perfumes into the 
room. 

‘Mn a moment. I like to walk about a 
little ; it does me good, and I feel strangely 
energetic to-day,” says Mrs. Barrington 
with a soft laugh. 

To-day,” mutters the housekeeper, 
you are thinking of that past folly, I ex- 
pect. I knew how it would be.” 

‘^Just for once you are at fault,” says 
her mistress, shaking her head gently. 
“That is too old a dream now, Janet, to 
concern me. It ended this day twelve 
months.” 

“ Y et you are not looking as well as you 
were last week,” says the woman gruffly. 
“ Then there seemed a chance of improve- 
ment in you ; but to-day ! ” 

“ Am I so hideous to-day ?” with ano- 
ther laugh, more real than the last. 

“ No.” 

“ How do I look then ? ” 

“ 111,” says the woman laconically. 


HEk last throw. 


145 


Without blood — without strength — with- 
out lifer 

At this instant the sound of the post- 
man’s afternoon knock makes itself heard. 

Get me my letters,” says Mrs. Bar- 
rington, a little glad, perhaps, to end the 
conversation. 

The woman presently returns with a 
small parcel in her hands. A paper box it 
might be, carefully wrapped round. 

“ Scarcely worth the journey, was it ? ” 
says she, handing it to her mistress. 

Mrs. Barrington, taking it, regards it 
eagerly. Had she hoped to .see foreign 
stamps, foreign postmarks on it ? If so, she 
must be disappointed. It is all hopelessly 
English, stamp, postage, everything. 

No, oh, no, it could not be from him. 

The handwriting is unknown to her. This 
would mean nothing, as, strange to say, she 
has never had a letter from Pasco vSevern. 
Their short, sweet love term had shewn no 
interlude where a billet-doux could have 
come in. He had been always so close to 


146 


HER LAST THROW. 


her and she to him. Meetings were all too 
frequent. 

Carelessly she drags off the paper cover- 
ing of the little parcel, disclosing a small 
cardboard box ; carelessly still she lifts the 
lid of it. The housekeeper has gone over 
to the window to arrange the drooping 
petals of a flower, and for a moment silence 
supreme reigns in the room. It is broken 
by a sharp and terrible cry. 

The woman turns quickly from the 
injured flower, her face blanched. Mrs. 
Barrington is standing where she has last 
seen her, an open box in her hand. She is 
swaying dangerously to and fro ; before 
the woman can reach her, she has fallen 
forward on her face and hands, a whole 
shower of purple pansies lie scattered round 
her head. 


It is many hours later, and dawn is just 
breaking in the pretty room. They had 
IL^ted her whfen she fell and placed her on 


HER LAST THRO IV. 


H7 

the lounge, and there still she lies. She will 
not be raised from it again until they raise 
her to place her in her coffin. The doctors 
had come in all haste and looked at her, 
and — well — there was no hope, and she 
must not be moved ; it was a mere ques- 
tion of hours, and she must not be moved, 
whatever happened ! 

The housekeeper, greyer and sterner of 
face than ever, sits motionless beside her, 
the dying woman’s hand in hers. What a 
beautiful hand ! Nature had been bountiful 
to her, but Fate had destroyed Nature’s 
gifts. What use to be perfect in face and 
form, if misery is flung out wdth a liberal 
hand to render all joy worthless. 

The woman lifting her from amongst 
those dying pansies, had known she sup- 
ported in her arms a flower as beautiful and 
as near to death as they were. Surely they 
were an unlucky souvenir. A little note 
had lain amongst them, and this the house- 
keeper had read, hoping to give some com- 
fort to the one creature that on earth she 


148 


HER LAST THROW. 


loves, and that creature lying on the border- 
land of life. It was a tiny note, a mere word 
or two. 

“ You will remember ? Not for one moment have 
I forgotten. To-morrow early I shall be with you, 
and then ” 

It , broke off abruptly, but love, real, 
earnest, passionate, sounded through each 
bare word, rendering them all eloquent. 
To-morrow ! That now, would mean to- 
day ! 

The woman shivers as she glances at the 
slender form on the lounge. Will she 
last ? Will she live until he comes ? And 
even if so — who is to tell him ? 

Early ! What does that mean ? Eleven ! 
One ! Three perhaps ! Who can say ? 

The cold sad light of coming day is illu- 
mining the room. As though she feels it, 
the dying woman stirs, and wakes from her 
lethargy to a last dull dalliance with life. 

“ It is day,” says she in that strange far. 
off tone that belongs alone to those bound 


HER LAST THROW. 


149 


for their immediate voyage across the im- 
placable Styx. 

Yes,” says the elder woman, pressing 
the hand she holds. This one word she 
speaks with difficulty — another would have 
been beyond her. She feels choked. 

This is to-morrow ? ” says Janet. 

“ Yes." 

“ He will soon be here." 

Soon, my dear. Soon, my darling.” 

He was true to me." 

Oh ! who would not be,” moans the 
woman, “ But keep still, keep quiet. Do 
not excite yourself.” 

“ I am happy,” says she with a slow 
glance upwards at the faithful rugged face 
above her. “ He is coming ! ” 

Ay,” says the woman. She clasps the 
damp thin hand more closely. And so is 
Death," she whispers to herself. 

There is a long silence. 

‘^You have not put me to bed,” says 
Mrs. Barrington, faintly. 


HER LAST TlfKOW: 


150 

No. They said you would be better 
here.” 

“Yes.” She seems to think for awhile. 
“ And after all, it doesn’t matter, does it ? 
Only, you will have the trouble of undress- 
ing me — afterwards ! ” 

The woman suppresses the groan that 
rises to her lips, but she turns very white. 

Once again the silence is prolonged — 
intense. Slowing the morning develops. 
Suddenly a clear sound breaks the stillness. 
The sharp cry of a little bird. The spar- 
rows are beginning to twitter beneath the 
roof. 

“ Do you hear that ? ” cries Mrs. Barring- 
ton uplifting herself upon her pillows, with a 
quick, wild energy. Some last uncertain 
strength seems to be upholding her. “ Oh ! 
That is life^ life ! What a little strange 
cry. It is a bird, a bird — but what a- funny 
one. Listen.” She falls back upon her 
pillows again, and to her companion’s horror 
breaks into low laughter. Laughter faint 
enough to be almost inaudible, yet strong 


HER LAST THROW. 


enough to shake the dying frame. 

‘‘Hush! Hush!” 

“It is the dawn ! Now the birds awake.” 
She sighs. Her sudden laughter has left her. 
“ Birds waken, and people die. I’ve always 
heard that one dies at dawn — haven’t you ? 
Oh ! ” An agony of fright convulses her 
lovely kjce. “ Oh ! keep me alive till he 
comes.” 

“ There ! There now. He is coming 
soon. Don’t talk, my dear. That's what 
wears you ! There now — stay still.” 

Silence again. The morning deepens. 
The light grows. Presently all the birds 
begin to call to each other, yet the figure 
lying so motionless takes no heed of them 
until suddenly : 

“Now — now!” cries she, excitedly, 
“ there it is again — don’t you hear it ? ” 

And, indeed, a most miserable little pipe 
can be heard through all the other twitter- 
ings. It is a heartbroken, weak little chirp, 
and just at this sad moment distressing. 

“It is calling to me,” whispers Mrs. 


152 HER LAST THRO IV. 

Barrington. Calling — calling — what a 
wretched little voice — like my own now.’' 

She begins to laugh again in the same 
queer way, until the woman watching her 
grows almost mad with fear and grief. 
What a wasting away of the last poor 
strands of strength ! Suddenly the lovely 
dying face quivers. The forlorn mirth dies 
from it. 

‘‘Oh, I wish it wouldnt!" says Mrs. 
Barrington, turning feebly to her compa- 
nion. “ Oh ! don’t let it ! ” 

She bursts into tears. 

The housekeeper, rising with a sup- 
pressed vehemence, shuts close the windows 
that have been left open to give the patient 
air, and so shuts out the coming sounds of 
day. Afterwards she sits down again by 
her charge, and so the day grows. 


He has entered the room. The house- 
keeper, risi:^g from her seat beside the 
dying form, lifts her hand to enjoin calm — ■ 


HER LAST THRO IK • 


153 


quiet. But love is never deaf, and s/ie has 
heard. She had been seemingly asleep for 
the last hour; but now she lifts herself with 
a sudden joyous movement, and holds out 
her arms to him. 

Falling upon his knees beside her, he 
buries his face in her gown. 

“ Darling ! — Darling ! — Bdoved ! ” whis- 
pers she, happily. With one hand she 
smoothes his bent head ; the other is firmly 
closed over something, as it has been ever 
since that fatal moment when she opened 
the packet. No one had dared to unclasp 
it, so tightly was.it clenched. “ That you 
should have come ! ” says she. 

‘‘ Oh ! surely you knew I would come ! ” 
No. There has always been so much 
disappointment for me — I did not dare 
believe it.” 

You doubted me ? ” 

You will forgive me that now,” says 
she, with a smile of saddest meaning. I 
am paying for my fault. If I had believed, 
I should not be dying ! ” 


154 • her last throw. 

“ The fault is all mine — I should have writ- 
ten. But you forbid me — and I thought you 
would know. Janet ! ” lifting his head, and 
looking at her wildly — Is it hopeless ? ” 
Don’t look like that ! I am glad of it ! ” 
says she, calmly. “ And I am happy — 
happy ! When tJuse came ” — she holds out 
to him her clenched hand — “ when I knew 
that you had remembered me, in spite of 
everything, my heart broke, I think, for 
very joy.” 

He opens her hand, and there, crushed, 
withered — dead, lie some of the purple 
pansies he had sent her. . 

“ Dear flowers ! ” whispers she, faintly. 

I have killed them ! Soon I shall be as 
they are. I told you,” smiling at him 
softly, they were for death. But I did 
not know then that death would be so 
sweet.” 

“ Dont ! ” says he, hoarsely. 

“ Why not ? . . . Had I ever hoped 

for so good an ending as this ? To have 
you beside me. . . . To ” 


HER LAST THROW. 155 

She seems to lose herself a little. Pass^ 
ing his arms round her, he draws her to 
him, till her head leans upon his breast — 
the beautiful head ! 

There is a long, long silence. She has 
grown very quiet. The labored breathing 
has become so gentle that now he can 
scarcely hear it. The day has changed, 
and a soft, light, pattering rain is falling 
upon the window-panes. The terrible 
monotony of its sound becomes at last un- 
bearable. All at once it seems to him that 
he cannot hear her breathing at all. He 
leans down to look more closely at her, an 
awful fear clutching at his heart. 

“Janet ! ” he whispers, loudly. 

She opens her eyes, and, recognizing him, 
a divine smile lights her face. 

“ You — you ! ” she gasps, faintly. “ Stay 
with me. I go . . . . at last to find 

rest^ — peace .... Eternal Rest 
. . . . Everlastinqr Peace ! ” 

She sighs. Suddenly, with a strange 
strength, she turns herself and slips a hand 


156 JiER LAST TEROJK 

round his neck. Feebly she tries to get 
even nearer to him. A violent shiver con- 
vulses her frame. 

“ I am cold ! ” says she. 

Cold as Death can make her ! She is, 
indeed, quite dead ! Pasco, numbed, hardly 
realizing, lays her back amongst her pil- 
lows. Her eyes are quite closed. She looks 
lovely. A tiny lock of hair is stfaying over 
her temple. He puts it gently into its 
place — softly, as if afraid of waking her. 
But .she is past all that. No storm of life — 
no grief — no love — can hurt or charm her 
any more. 

Somebody has come into the room. 
There is a sharp cry. It seems to waken 
Pasco from his dull dream. That woman, 
there, ©n her knees beside her — what is she 
doing ? And Janet — Janet is silent. 

The dream flies for ever! 

yanet is dead ! 


THE END. 


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